


Based on True Events

by damnitgreenberg



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU with werewolves, Angst, Blackmail, Blood and Gore, Bullying, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Violence, brief references to self-cannibalism, more warnings in the notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 03:44:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 90,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnitgreenberg/pseuds/damnitgreenberg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perpetual new girl Allison Argent always tries to stay anonymous and under the radar. But when she’s given an unprecedented opportunity to stay at BHHS to finish out the year, she takes it and quickly makes up for lost time. With her friends’ help, she enrolls herself in a town-wide documentary contest and uses it to explore one of Beacon Hills’ most infamous unsolved mysteries: the Hale House Murders. She discovers that the truth behind the murders might be closer than she ever imagined as her low-fuss, low-stress project with her friends quickly becomes the worst night of their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Teen Wolf Big Bang challenge. Much thanks to [Otodog](http://otodog.livejournal.com/profile), who bravely betaed this monster for me. All remaining errors are my own.
> 
> All the lovely graphics and art for this story were made by [Paleogymnast](http://paleogymnast.livejournal.com/)! Thank you so much!
> 
> Warnings: AU-with-werewolves. Character deaths: none of season 1’s main six, none of Derek’s trio. Violence and gore as appropriate for a werewolf horror movie. Angst and teenagers. No hunters, no one has their shit together. Some magic. Hales were human. Peter’s still a creep. Matt’s still a creep. This is not Twilight. Someone slips someone something in a food item and/or beverage. While not given with consent, the slipped item does not impair judgment or bodily functions (more or less). Bullying, blackmail, spying, brief references to self-cannibalism, language, implied off-screen child abuse, biphobia in the form of negative stereotypes. There is a prominent slash pairing (Sterek) and there is some femmeslash in the background.

_2008_

The girl sat with her hands flat on the table. Her mouth ached and her nails smelled like blood. 

The man—the stranger—stared at her across the table, just as motionless, just as weary. His eyes reminded her of the sharpened edge of a knife, but it was tempered by the bags under his eyes, by the days of graying stubble on his cheeks, by his earlier plea for assistance.

No. Laura settled back into her seat, leaning against the booth’s cushion. No, she had control over this. He might have been older, he might have been informed, but he came to her, damn it.

Laura stared a little longer, mouth pressed into a thin line. All the better to hide her teeth.

In the background, plates clicked and clacked together. Other patrons murmured and discussed their days, their thoughts, their dreams. The cook swore in the kitchen as flesh touched heat and sizzled. Someone dropped silverware— tink ,tink, tink. The waitress burnt the coffee and didn’t know it.

“I don’t know where she is,” Laura said again, lying through her teeth. “I hope she’s dead.” That, at least, was true. 

“That’s unlikely. Death, I mean. We both know what she is.” The man rubbed his hand over his face. The sound of calluses rasping over stubble was almost deafening for a moment. If not for his vague, distracted expression, she’d almost believe he’d done it on purpose. 

Icy blue eyes cut to her suddenly. “You don’t understand what she’s been through.” The expression, the tone—they asked for compassion, understanding.

Laura wanted to cry. She leaned forward across the table instead, baring her teeth. “Do you really expect me to feel sorry for _her_?” Her eyes were heated and wet.

The man wilted slightly. “No. But… I need to find her. I need to make sure it’s-” He stared miserably at his untouched cup of coffee. He was older, but he wasn’t that much older than her—five years, maybe. Or ten. But he looked older than that. He looked ancient. He looked worn out.

Laura sucked in a breath. It all collapsed together in her head, suddenly making perfect sense: the feverish explanation of her new nightmare reality, the desperation behind his plea for help, the incongruous scent of childish, girlish perfume lingering on his clothes.

“Do you have a daughter?” His eyes shot to her suddenly, betraying him. She stared at him for a long moment. The she laughed. There was no humor in it. No enjoyment. 

His expression closed off. Strangely, Laura wanted to laugh again. She tapped her long nails against the edge of the table, watching it distractedly.

Then Laura looked up. “Good luck with that.” She slid her hand over the table and palmed the white square he’d given her as she stood. She went for the entrance of the diner and then paused, making eye contact with him across the room. 

Laura pointedly threw his card in the trash.

She got into her crappy car and drove to an equally crappy parking garage, five miles away from where she needed to be. She snuck out and took to the streets, weaving in and out of the unfamiliar alleyways, always watching behind her. 

Laura was vibrating with tension. He seemed sympathetic, but… who knew? Who knew, indeed.

So much for being in charge. She inhaled a deep, shuttering breath and kept moving.

Walking around randomly in the streets didn’t soothe her paranoia. Laura took to the roofs, leaping effortlessly across gaps and quickly scurrying up rusting fire escapes. This was not a new method home, but she never took the same route twice.

Laura made it to the motel quickly, palming her key from her back pocket before looking intently in either direction. When nothing seemed out of place—or, worse, too interested—she turned back to her door and stuck the key in. 

Being hunted for a month through northern California had really put her on edge. Their uncle had done what they couldn’t and she couldn’t help but wonder what that made him now.

Her mouth twisted. It wasn’t her problem.

Laura let herself in. 

The twin beds were untouched, just as they had been this morning. She bypassed them, the TV, the closet, and the wide dresser, making for the bathroom in the back.

Her brother was sitting on the floor, back to the wall. He hadn’t moved all day. He hadn’t moved all week, if she was going to be honest with herself. His eyes were bloodshot and his jaw was scratchy with stubble—even more stubble than the all-too-knowledgeable stranger. Only severe sleep deprivation kept him from flinching at her presence, but his eyes moved to her still, searching for threats while entirely blind to them.

Laura stared at him for a long moment, anxiety clawing at her throat. Then she tossed her hair over her shoulder and walked in, sitting with him.

Laura tucked him under her arm and pressed a hard kiss to his head. “It’s over. It’s over, I promise.” She meant it to sound confident and unwavering, but it came out choked instead. Her eyes heated up again. This time, she let the tears fall.

Laura pressed her face into his jaw, sobbing, “I swear to God. I swear!” The useless promises were ripped from her throat, given voice by fear and terror and gut twisting guilt.

Overwhelmed, she turned to him fully, trying to pull his unresponsive body into a hug. Her hand hovered clumsily over his hip, tracing the air over the claw marks across his sides, healing oh so very slow.

Derek didn’t say a word.


	2. Chapter 2

_2013_

Allison Argent stood awkwardly in the middle of their school’s involvement fair, her jacket folded over her arm. She was more of a spectator than a participant, but that was okay. Lydia did oh so love an audience.

Oh, Lydia. Lydia Martin. Allison didn’t make a habit of making friends at school—not with her dad’s job constantly pulling them from place to place—but Lydia hadn’t really given her much of a choice. She didn’t suffer fools gracefully—or well—and Allison happened to fall in the narrow population of people who weren’t labeled ‘too stupid to exist’.

It was a harsh, unforgiving system. Allison still wasn’t sure how she’d won, really. She wasn’t a genius like Lydia, but she was quick witted and spoke up when she needed to. And her opinions were usually pretty well informed?

Oh, who was she kidding. Lydia’s system was a mystery.

Speaking of which, Lydia was perched on the corner of the tennis club’s table, sucking on a lollipop as she engaged in an intense staring contest with the club’s junior representation. The poor girl looked like she was going to cry.

Finally, Lydia pulled the treat out with a pop before saying, sharply, “On average, how much physical exertion does your little club force us to endure in order for our participation to count?” Lydia cocked her head to the side, waiting for an answer and looking as if every word wasn’t delivered with all the precision and force of a whip.

Allison winced, wanting to look away. Redirected aggression, much?

Lydia dominated the pack in terms of the more academically leaning crowd, but a meeting with a counselor had her spitting fire. Apparently, Lydia wasn’t “well rounded” enough, as far as colleges went. She had to have some athletic extracurriculars as well, so she was looking at tennis. 

Lydia had already explained the logic of it to Allison on the way there, and it was a rather reasonable choice, considering. She was well versed on the physics of it and even liked the tennis skirts some of them wore, in an ironic way. But she loathed doing anything that made her break out a sweat.

Hence the standoff with the junior girl, who looked thoroughly intimidated and mildly aroused at the same time.

Lydia seemed intrigued by that, so Allison intervened, quickly saying her hellos and her goodbyes before dragging her friend back into the middle of the hallway. Lydia could go the rest of the day without breaking any more hearts, right?

“You’re no fun.”

“And you’re practically married,” Allison hissed.

“It could be an open marriage.”

Allison grabbed Lydia’s chin and turned her face down the hall so Lydia would have no choice but to look at Jackson Whittemore. None other than the lacrosse team captain, the school’s only quadruple threat, Jackson cocked his head to the side, listening to his English teacher with faked patience. Physically, the guy was pretty and perfect, so naturally his personality was crap to compensate. 

Lydia and Jackson adored each other like grass adored rain.

“Does he look like the sort of guy who’d share?” Allison pulled her friend’s gaze back, lowering her voice. “More importantly, are you the sort of girl who’d be alright with someone touching your boyfriend?”

Something flashed in Lydia’s eyes. She had a jealous streak she didn’t like admitting to. She looked at Allison challengingly, then back at Jackson, then back at Allison again before tossing her hair over her shoulder.

“Fun ruiner. Ruiner of fun,” Lydia declared, but didn’t exactly disagree. With that said, she pivoted abruptly and stalked down the hall towards Jackson. 

Jackson’s eyes widened as she pushed him into a locker and aggressively started making out with him, but he didn’t resist. He dropped one hand to her hip and the other went into her hair.

The English teacher looked scandalized and just stood there, frozen. Finstock was quicker to react, swatting Jackson’s shoulder with a rolled up flyer.

“Whoa there, hot shot. We’ve already had three pregnancies this year. Let’s not have four. Safe sex or no sex!” When a crowd of teenagers passed him, shooting him creeped out looks, Finstock shouted, “Wrap it before you tap it!”

A school administrator down the hall palmed his face. 

Jackson and Lydia parted, Jackson smiling smugly. Lydia pulled him back to Allison and he didn’t bother resisting. He didn’t even complain when all Lydia did was drop him off next to Allison before she sailed off to go harass some other athletic club.

“Sorry, it’s slim pickings this year,” Jackson said to Allison, shrugging.

“I know, right?” Allison said with a nod. They started walking around the circle of tables, careful to keep out of reach of the club reps, who could get clingy and desperate. “It’s only stuff like the Tabletop Club or the Anime Club or History-”

“What are you interested in?” Jackson asked. “Creatively speaking. I’m assuming you’re going to wimp out on a real sport too.” He walked past her, distracted, as she glared at the back of his head.

Jackson was really the ass people were thinking of when they said “don’t assume.” That being said, though… Tennis made her anxious and soccer made her vicious and every other athletic club had a bunch of dudebros splayed across their tables, watching the crowd with indifference or proprietary interest. It was loud in the hallway, but she could have sworn someone called dibs as she passed. 

No thank you.

She followed Jackson closely, because, although he was an asshole, he was a very particular kind of asshole. 

“I’m cycling my way through various mediums,” she said vaguely. It was a nice way of saying that she sucked at anything creative. She winced at the reminder of her emo poetry, terrible art, weird pictures— and not to mention that one ill advised experiment with a violin. She still didn’t know how the damn thing broke. 

Allison crinkled her nose. “I suppose the only one left is video.” She said this softly and to herself.

“Why not join the AV Club?” someone piped up. As a pair, Allison and Jackson turned, eyebrows raised.

Matt Daehler smiled sheepishly, shrugging. “Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing.” 

Allison knew him vaguely from math and thought he could be nice, but she hadn’t spent time with him outside of class. She rarely spent time with anyone—except for Lydia. 

“Just overheard, huh,” Jackson said, unimpressed. “Yeah, right.” He shoulder-checked the guy to go say hi to some other lacrosse players. Matt visibly winced. 

Jackson clearly expected Allison to follow. But, feeling guilty, Allison hung back. “I didn’t think we had an AV Club,” she said politely, mostly to distract him from Jackson.

He shifted his attention back to her, rubbing his shoulder a little. “Well, it’s more of an AV slash photography slash drama slash debate club because…” The guy huffed out a small laugh, shrugging good naturedly. “Not a lot of people are interested in those things here.”

“That’s too bad.”

“That’s because they’re boring,” Lydia sang softly behind Allison. She breezed past them both, sailing away in that delicate and yet infinitely superior way of hers. 

Smiling at her friend’s antics, Allison turned back to Matt, but Matt’s attention was on Lydia. He watched her retreating back with an unsettling expression that was two parts dislike and one part contempt. But when he looked back at Allison, the expression disappeared so quickly that Allison doubted what she had seen in the first place. 

“Do you want to, uh, come to a meeting maybe?”

Allison took a half-step back. “Ah, no. No thanks.” She smiled tightly. “It’s not your club, it’s just… I have no time for that.”

Having circled his way back to her, Jackson snorted at her response. “No time for clubs, no time for parties, no time for boyfriends—god, Allison. You are boring.” He draped an arm over her shoulder, hugging her to him briefly. “How are you supposed to start calling Beacon your home if you just stay in your room all day?” He let go, messing up her hair with an idle hand. 

Allison made a face and flattened her hair back down. Jackson seemed confused how to treat her and was clearly still trying to figure it out. Some days, he acted like she was Girlfriend #2, others, like the little sister he never had. 

“He sorta has a point,” Matt said apologetically.

“Well, he sorta misses _mine_ ,” Allison replied quickly. She looked down at the floor and said quietly, “Can’t exactly get attached to this place if I don’t know if I’m going to be here next month, can I?”

There was an awkward pause. Then Matt was suddenly swinging his backpack in front of him, opening it up. “Look. If you’re really interested in moving on to filming, there is this one contest that’s floating around. A documentary contest. It’s, uh, like throwing you in the deep end, especially if you haven’t done anything before, but…” He made a triumphant noise and pulled out a canary yellow flyer.

“What’s it about?”

Instead of immediately responding, he just passed her the flyer. She skimmed it briefly, jumping straight to the end and—holy cow. They were offering the grand prize of five thousand dollars and a limited, special showing of the winning project at their local movie theater. 

What the hell kind of small town was this?

“Wow, not kidding around with the prizes, are they?”

“No, they are not,” Matt confirmed with a laugh. “It’s run by the Beacon Hills Historical Society. So your documentary has to be about Beacon Hills, but you can interpret that pretty loosely. Last year, the theme was Outstanding Monuments, and the winning documentary was about tricking people with fake statue-mimes.” 

Allison looked at the flyer again, conflicted. The deadline was several months away, but… “This sounds neat, but I don’t know if I’m going to be here next March.” She didn’t want to commit to something and totally flake out on it.

“You don’t have to sign up or anything. If you have something, just show up in March and given them your documentary.” Matt shifted the strap of his backpack on his shoulder. “And if you’re worried about equipment, they’ll even temporarily donate stuff to you if you send them a decent proposal. My buddy did that last year.” He shrugged. “The equipment’s nice too.”

“I’ll think about it. Thanks.” Allison tried to give the flyer back to him.

Matt took a step back, raising his hands. “No, it’s okay. You can keep it. See ya.” With that, he walked away.

Well. That was nice.

Allison looked back down on the flyer, still in denial about the grand prize, but, nope, there it was. What a weird town.

Her gaze moved up the paper, eyes focusing on that year’s prompt. The word theme was written in bold italics.

Defining Moments, huh? Hm.

Allison pressed the flyer to her chest, deep in thought.

-

_2005_

At the knock, Laura ripped open the hotel door. Mascara was smeared around her eyes and hair tumbled around her head in thick waves. She had the look of a wild woman—fierce, untamed, and ready to bite.

Her gaze, ever so slightly gold in the afternoon light, dropped about a foot. Then, and only then, did she recoil.

Czesław tried not to take that personally. 

“How did you even… get inside.” She grabbed him by his head and propelled him through the hotel door. Normally, he’d fight such a gesture, complaining that he was a ten year old boy, not a walking bowling ball, but, today, he accepted the manhandling, sniffling miserably and rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. 

Her stern, angry expression wobbled a little bit until they were just staring at each other, two open wounds acknowledging each other. This wasn’t what they wanted, this wasn’t where they expected to be. Czesław was supposed to be in a food coma, passed out on a couch somewhere in the Hale house, and, instead…

This. It was Thanksgiving Day, and Czesław’s best friend was the prime suspect of a murder investigation—the murder of his own freaking family.

Czesław stared at the floor, at the mottled carpeting and the darkened edge of stains indicating where something used to be.

He’d found out their location his usual way—he’d shown up where he wasn’t supposed to be. Under the pretense of a visit, he’d eavesdropped in on a conversation between a pair of deputies at the sheriff station. They were suspecting Derek, of all people, and were keeping tabs on where he was at all times. 

Three days ago, they were all still in class when things went down, but now Derek’s school alibi was being questioned. It had been revealed that his friends regularly covered for him when he ditched. Three guesses why he was ditching in the first place, Czesław thought darkly, thinking of the lady. The bad weird lady. The lady who had to be at the center of this all.

Laura sniffled loudly, pushing past Czesław. “Goddamnit Derek, he’s here for you, not-“ She bit off whatever she was going to say and locked herself in the bathroom. After a few minutes, the water turned on full blast.

Derek said nothing for a moment. There were bags under his eyes. He looked hollow, deadened inside, but in a fragile way. More fine china than stone. He was sitting on one of the hotel beds, back to the wall. After a beat, Czesław approached him, climbing up on the corner of it before settling on his knees. 

“You mad at me?” Czesław asked, wavering. Expression muted, Derek just shook his head. Czesław sighed, relieved, and settled down more comfortably. With a curious eye, he took in the contents of the room.

Snack foods and bottles of water. Energy drinks and coffee. Three large wads of cash. A map of California with highlighter marks on it. And perhaps the most telling piece of evidence—three duffle bags packed up tight and stacked next to the door.

Czesław had seen both of their rooms. Derek and Laura Hale were not naturally neat people.

He put it all together and turned his eyes on his friend. “You’re leaving. Why?”

Derek inhaled a breath as if he hadn’t expected Czesław to come up with that conclusion. He didn’t try to lie. Instead, he made a face and said, thickly, “There’s a bad person after us. The same person who-” Derek’s face buckled. He didn’t need to fill in the blanks there.

“Was it her?”

“You know I’m not going to answer that.”

Czesław scowled at him. Then, cheered by a different thought, he knee-walked closer to Derek, patting his leg earnestly. “Well, why not come and stay at my house. My dad will protect you!”

“Your dad’s not enough.”

Czesław balked at that. “My dad has guns. How is that not enough?”

Derek looked haunted—so quiet, so withdrawn. He was a shade of his former self. “Trust me. It’s not.” 

A long moment passed. Czesław wondered if Laura knew that the sound of the shower didn’t quite drown out her crying. Czesław picked at a string hanging out of the comforter.

Derek was staring somewhere over Czesław’s shoulder, expression blank.

Czesław had to nudge his knee to get his attention again. “When are you coming back?” When Derek didn’t answer, Czesław felt dread twist up his stomach. “Are you? Are you coming back?”

After a pause, Derek wordlessly shook his head.

Czesław twisted his hands up into fists. He tried to remember that there was a bad guy out there and Derek’s family was dead, but it still hurt. Before he could think it through, he sucked in a huge breath and said, “You promised you would never-“

He stopped, because he remembered Talia hugging him to her side. He remembered Cora directing an exaggerated eye roll at him during class. He remembered Peter’s pretty fiancée, so sweet and smelling of lavender perfume. He remembered Derek’s family, and how perfect everyone was, right until someone decided to take them away.

Czesław rubbed the tears away from his face. Eventually, he nodded. “Okay. Okay, I understand.” 

They sat together in silence until Laura came out, hair wet and smelling like cheap hotel shampoo.

-

_2013_

Thirty-seven.

Thirty-eight.

Thirty-nine.

Scott paused, hanging one handedly from a bar set in the corner of their weight room. He took a deep breath, ignoring a twinge of anxiety. His chest was tight from the work out—that’s all. His asthma had lessened in severity the last few years, but that didn’t mean he didn’t get an attack from time to time. It didn’t mean that the next one wouldn’t be as terrifying as the very first.

Grimacing, he resumed.

Forty.

Forty-one.

Scott wasn’t going to be held back by his stupid lungs. He wasn’t. Hadn’t he made first line despite it? Hadn’t he helped everyone win that last championship game?

Forty-two.

Forty-three.

Granted, he’d been bumped back down to the bench within three games, but that was just because Diego had healed up finally. That didn’t mean that he wasn’t front line material, there was just… no room. That’s all.

No room. Scott blinked the spots out of his vision. Stinging sweat trickled into his eyes. Irritably, he wiped them away with one hand before starting again.

Or not. 

He readjusted his grip slightly, underestimating the slickness of his palm. Then, suddenly, he slipped and knew he wasn’t going to land on his feet or even his ass, but right on his back of his head. He felt a dull sense of horrified anticipation and braced for impact-

But he didn’t fall far. His cushion made a slight oof noise and gently helped him down.

Scott tipped his chin up to see the sharp lines of Isaac Lahey’s jaw.

Scott’s knee jerk response was to grin goofily at him. “Hey, nice catch!” Isaac ducked his head, withdrawing quickly. Realizing that Isaac probably thought he was making fun of him, Scott caught his elbow. “No, really. Thanks, buddy.”

Isaac stared at him for a long moment before dropping his head. He mumbled something about leaving, and then fled. 

When Isaac was out of sight, Scott let his smile fall. The guy was getting more and more shy and more and more withdrawn each year. Sometimes, Scott could see this directionless rage in Isaac, desperation and hopelessness wrapped up in one. Isaac was not a bad guy—clearly not—but he was definitely someone on the edge. 

Scott just wished he knew why the guy was so worked up and how he could help.

Still frowning to himself, Scott made his way to the locker room and headed for the showers. Like the weight room, the locker room was practically empty. Everyone else, it seemed, was swarming around the front hall for the club involvement fair. 

Stiles was probably there too. The clubs sometimes offered food as an enticement to join, and there was nothing Stiles loved more than free food. Scott, though, was using the extra time out of class for the weight room. He had to, if he was going to rejoin the first line.

Scott came out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist and went to his locker to get dressed. He’d just pulled on a pair of jeans when Danny Mahealani, the only other person to take advantage of an empty weight room, came in, sweaty and slightly flushed. 

Scott didn’t expect to be spoken to. Danny was nice, but Danny was also popular, whereas Scott was just… not.

So he was really surprised when Danny suddenly sat next to him on the bench, dimpling at him when Scott looked up from his shoes.

“Hey, man.”

“Hey.” Danny gazed at him for a moment, calculatingly, before saying, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but this self-improvement thing of yours is very attractive.”

Scott beamed at him. “Thanks!” He couldn’t imagine how that would have been taken the wrong way.

Danny’s smile warmed. “No, I mean. Most people would have given up by now. You’re persistent, though. I like that.” He clapped a hand on the bench. “I know your asthma has gotten a bit in the way of you playing this year on the lacrosse team, but, if you’d like, I can work with you outside of practice. To bring up your game?”

Scott thought about his shifts at the animal clinic. “I don’t know…”

“Oh, come on. We can practice on weekends, if you’re busy. Plus”—Danny wiggled his eyebrows—“I have moves Jackson has never seen.”

“Oh,” And then said, as abruptly as the idea occurred to him, he said, “Was that a double entendre?”

Danny laughed. “It’s alright, McCall. I know what team you play for.”

Scott grinned back at him. “Saturdays would be perfect for me, if you’re free.”

“Saturdays would be perfect for me too.” Danny stood up, voice going distant. “It’s not like I’m dating anyone right now.” He opened his own locker with a bang—and then a very soft apology.

Scott winced. Ethan might have been the nicer of the two twins, but that had ended terribly. Slowly, he picked up the pace, getting dressed again.

“You’ll find someone,” Scott said earnestly. And he would. Danny was amazing. But…

It seemed like everyone around Scott was dating or breaking up or making up. Even Stiles, once he’d grown out of the freshman-sophomore awkward phase, had people lining up to climb him like a tree. Scott, on the other hand, had dated exactly two people. One of them was a psychopath and the other had forgotten they were dating in mid-date.

Scott felt left out. It sucked.

Once dressed, he closed his locker and messed with his phone until Danny was done, not liking the idea of leaving the other boy alone. Danny’s smile alone was worth the wait. Scott quickly made up something about wanting to talk about his weaknesses and what they could do to lessen or get rid of them. 

Danny humored him. Apparently, Scott had a tendency to leave his defenses wide open for attack, which explained at least half of the concussions Scott had gotten over the years. Then Danny started talking about different defense maneuvers and foot positions as they walked back into the school, and Scott was really listening. He was. 

But then the bell rang and a crowd of students started walking quickly to class.

Scott froze. 

Noticing he was no longer following, Danny turned and shot Scott an indulgent expression. “And you’ve just tuned out, haven’t you.”

Scott couldn’t hear a word he said because _Allison_. Allison Argent. Lovely, perfect, smart Allison Argent, with her perfect hair and her perfect smile and her perfect everything, walked past Scott with Lydia Martin. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled, the expression somehow mysterious and amused at the same time. 

Her focus was entirely on her friend, thank god, because the noise that came out of Scott was just embarrassing. He sagged against the wall, watching her go.

Everyone knew there was a new girl, but Scott had only noticed her—really noticed her—during a field trip. Jared had puked all over the cement just as they exited the bus at the foot of their semi-local art museum. He hadn’t been allowed to enter. Instead of abandoning him there, she sat with him and rubbed his back until he felt better. 

Then, during lunch, she decked some weird guy trying to take pictures up girls’ skirts.

She was _amazing._

Allison turned the corner, disappearing from sight. Scott suddenly remembered Danny. “I’m sorry, what?”

Danny was still waiting. He shot Scott a fond look. “She looks at you too.”

Shaking his head, Scott snorted. “Right. Let’s just go to class.” Together, they went up the stairs.

“Saturday?” Danny said as they rounded the landing. Oh, right. Training.

“Yeah. I appreciate it, man.” They clapped hands and parted. 

It wasn’t like he had anything else to do that weekend. Danny was such a good guy, trying to give him tips for lacrosse—trying to give him hope for love. Scott’s smile dimmed.

Allison was perfect and normal. What kind of interest would she possibly have in him?

-

Wood snapped and groaned under her foot, and Allison was suddenly awake again—awake and _standing_ , staring down a long flight of stairs and at a dark, solid iron door. Three white swirls made up the surface, connected at the middle. 

Allison pressed a hand against the wall. She wavered slightly, fighting equally strong urges to go down and to leave. She blinked rapidly, feeling like a fist was twisted in her gut, like she was being pulled in.

In the end, though, leaving won. Leaving always won. For now.

She glanced down and grimaced at her bare toes. Ugh. She forgot her shoes again.

Allison jogged back up the stairs and into the dusty kitchen of a place that was not her own. She leaned against a counter briefly, dizzy, but soon went on, skillfully avoiding a chair leg. There was absolutely no hesitation in the way she navigated the nearly pitch dark room, and why would there be? She already familiar with the floor plan. Too familiar, in fact. Her feet had worn a path through the dust on the floor, which was helpful in the beginning when she still was freaking out about it all.

But her route never changed. She always went from the front door to basement steps, always. No detours.

Allison sucked in a huge breath as she went outside. Ack, it was cold. She rubbed her arms briskly, then tilted her head up, listening to cricket chirping and the distant sound of bird song, gathering herself. 

A moment later, she started off on a slow jog down the rural looking driveway. It would lead to a paved road eventually and, the longer she jogged, the faster it would pop up. It was good that she rarely needed to stop and catch her breath. Her father often praised her for her stamina, but always with a fleeting smile that never reached his eyes. 

It was too bad the school didn’t have track or cross country. She would have dominated in those.

Allison slowed down, wincing as she reached one of the main roads. Stamina meant little when it came to bare, vulnerable soles and the friction of running, ow ow ow. She paused, flexing her foot and waiting for the raw feeling to go away.

She started again, slower this time. She sung softly to herself, arms clasped tightly under her chest.

About ten minutes later, she heard something rare for this unplanned morning jaunt—the sound of a rumbling engine. She slowed down to a walk, tensing, dreading the confrontation. She knew what this looked like—a walk of shame, if there ever was one.

A blue Jeep pulled up by the side of the road, stopping right next to her with a sliding jerk.

“Little early for that, don’t you think?”

Allison startled slightly. She crossed her arms tighter. She was wearing sleep shorts and a tank top, which was about one third of the layers she liked to be wearing when she had to talk to someone. 

“This is so not what it looks like.”

When she finally looked at him, Stiles Stilinski was raising both of his eyebrows at her. “So you weren’t sleep walking.”

Floored for a moment, Allison hesitated and then took a hitching step towards Stiles’ Jeep. “Okay, so this is exactly what it looks like,” she said warily. 

“Can’t imagine any other reason for being out here.” He rolled his eyes at her and patted the passenger seat. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride home.”

Allison paused and then reached for the door handle closest to her, half-ignored warnings of stranger danger dancing in her head. He wasn’t a stranger. And he wasn’t really a danger either. He was one hundred fifty pounds, soaking wet. She could take him. She could take three of him.

She settled into the seat, mumbling a thank you as she did her seat belt. Stiles smiled distantly, distractedly, and then did an abrupt double take, seeing raised flesh on her arms. 

“Holy crap on a stick, how long have you been walking?”

Allison just shrugged, embarrassed.

Stiles made a half formed noise in his throat and flailed a little, turning on the sputtering heater before turning around in his back seat to cover her with nearly every piece of clothing he had—a practice jersey, three hoodies, and a spare set of jeans.

“I had no idea,” he said apologetically. “My heater sucks-“

More than her body was warming at the sight of his genuine concern. “It’s fine.”

“You can get hypothermia. It’s winter-“

“It’s California winter. It doesn’t qualify.”

“ _Still_.”

His clothing smelled kind of musty but the layers made her feel less naked. She tugged the jersey to her neck, smiling when he fought the passenger window—and lost. It would just have to remain open.

“It’s fine. I’m toasty.” She smiled at him.

That was all the reassurance Stiles needed to start the car again. He pulled off the side of the road, heading back to town. 

Allison settled deeper into her pile of clothes. This was a nice change of pace. Usually, she had to walk back the entire way. But it, like most things, had a price.

And as benign as it was, Stiles’ curiosity was one hell of a price.

“I used to sleep walk,” Stiles said finally, after seven minutes of silence. “It was a weird side effect to some of the meds I was taking. Of course, when I was sleepwalking, I walked to the kitchen, made myself a meal and then went back to bed. I didn’t walk three miles away from my house.”

Allison made a face. “I don’t know what’s going on. This has never happened before.” She curled her bare toes. Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“Look, it’s fine. Everything turned out alright in the end, right?” Stiles waved a hand dismissively. “The only thing back there is the old Hale house, and, hey, no one lives there anymore. So it’s not like you were trespassing or anything.” 

Hale house. Was that where she ended up? Allison couldn’t think of a reason why it had been abandoned. She wasn’t an expert, but it didn’t look like there was any structural damage at all. “Why not? Why aren’t there any Hales there, I mean?” She licked her lips nervously, thinking of that menacing basement door.

Stiles snorted derisively. “Why not? Why not. That’s seriously the dumbest-“ He wilted at the look she shot him. “Well, okay. You wouldn’t know, would you?” He sucked in a deep breath and, knuckles white where he gripped the steering wheel, started talking.

About ten years ago, two of the three Hale children came home to find their uncle half-dead on the porch and the rest of their family horribly injured or outright slaughtered inside. One of the siblings ran in to get the landline to call the cops, only to run across the person who did it, in their living room and waiting for them to come home. The confrontation left the two siblings wounded and most of the family dead. 

Only the uncle and the three children survived. The youngest was still in a coma.

Stiles turned left into a four way intersection, letting go of the wheel briefly to flap his left hand. “Now, they insisted that it was a person, right? I mean, before they went all silent on the matter and scattered in the wind. But, see, the evidence? It doesn’t support that. Not exactly. The cops couldn’t figure out if it was an animal, a human, or some kind of serial killing animal-human duo. They found wolf hairs, like, everywhere. And the wounds? The bites, the scratches? They all look like an animal could have done it, but no one’s been able to identify what kind of animal did that. They only thing they’ll confirm is that wolves don’t hunt like that.” And then, almost to himself, Stiles muttered, “Even a rabid wolf couldn’t have done that.”

Allison absorbed that slowly, sickened. She wondered how many dark stains on the floor she’d ignored for a mess and had actually been someone’s last resting place. 

She covered her eyes with her hand. Eight people had died in that place. Wow.

Stiles looked at her for a moment and then took a detour. He parked and jumped out, saying he’d take her home after he got her a cup of hot coffee. He apparently felt bad for dumping that on her, which was… not really what she expected of him? Allison watched him go with a frown. 

Stiles didn’t exactly have the best reputation at school. He dated a lot, but was very unpopular with his past partners—not because he was a cheater or anything, but because he tended to prioritize his friendships over relationships. Some people were also dicks to him because he was out and bi and very comfortable with it. They believed him incapable of commitment. The fact that none of his relationships lasted beyond a month didn’t help that.

Allison didn’t put too much stock in that, though. She tried to judge people only by what she’d seen of them with her eyes, and her most prominent memory of Stiles was in the library. Some jackass in the library knocked over a shelf—God knows how—which released a shower of books over her head with enough force to drive her into unconsciousness. 

Only that hadn’t happened because Stiles had pushed her out of the way just in the nick of time.

Whatever the rumors about him said, in the end? That was what she remembered of him—pithy commentary during class and heroic gestures. Gestures like pushing someone out of the way of a book avalanche. Gestures like picking up a relative stranger on the side of the road and taking them home. Gestures like getting them coffee after imparting a horrific story.

Allison frowned, sinking deeper under his clothes. The story, though. Stiles knew so much about what happened. So many tiny details. Almost like he was there.

When Stiles saw her watching through the windshield, he waved and turned back to the barista. She waved back, belatedly. 

She knew why she was out there, but why was he out in the woods that morning?

Allison froze. Then, shamelessly, she started looking around the inside of his car for clues.

Stiles had dragged practically everything from the backseat forward in his panic to warm her up. Everything but a baseball mitt. She took off her seat belt and reached back, the tips of her fingers skimming the inside of the glove. It was warm and slightly moist. It was used just recently then. She flipped the glove over, noticing faded letters. 

Maybe an “I” ? She flipped it over once more and took a startled breath. The first name was lost, almost worn completely off, but the second was not.

_**H A L E** _

She dropped it almost instantly. 

Then, of course—because her luck couldn’t get any better—the driver side of the car opened.

Stiles slid in, handing her a cup of coffee. He set his own in the cup holder and closed the door behind her. Then he gazed at her steadily. He’d seen her with the mitt. 

After a long pause, he jerked his head to the back seat. “You play?”

She smiled once and then smiled again, feeling it to be more genuine that second time. “Do I look like a girl who wouldn’t enjoy hitting things with sticks?”

Stiles laughed. “You should see our high school team.”

“Are you any good?”

“We’re awful. So awful, it’s beautiful.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Oh, come on. Really? I’m going to be late.”

“Don’t be like that. I’ll drive you, okay? Just humor me.”

Scott sighed heavily and went back into the bathroom, his mom on his heels.

His mom was watching more and more motivational speakers. His dad’s departure had left them both kind of wrecked, but Melissa seemed to find strength in the common sense advice and good will given to her in these seminars. Scott thought it was a scam, at best, but it made his mom feel happy. And that, above all else, was the most important thing, even if she did try to share the experience with him. 

The last seminar was all about seizing the day. He stopped in front of the mirror, sighing again. His mom, on the other hand, clapped both of her hands on his arms. She hooked her chin on his shoulder, gazing at him fondly in the mirror.

“You’re going to make me feel dumb.”

Melissa’s smile widened. “That’s half the fun, isn’t it? Say it.”

He did, quietly. 

“Sorry, precious. Couldn’t hear you,” she sung lightly.

Scott cleared his throat, saying clearly, “Today, I am seizing the day.”

“Aw.” Melissa beamed at him, resting her head against his neck. After a moment, she said, “Your jaw looks weird from this angle.”

Scott spluttered, embarrassed. “What- Mom!”

She slid out, hands up.“Just saying. She laughed at him some more, but she did take him to school, so he wasn’t too miffed.

Melissa stopped in the parking zone, and then got out to help him get his bike from the back.

“Now, _you’re_ going to be late,” Scott said fondly, taking his helmet from her.

“Don’t mom me, child.” Melissa made a motion like she was going to hug him or kiss him goodbye, but, just in time, remembered they were in front of a high school. And that high school kids were dicks.

She gripped his arm instead. “Do good today.”

Scott said bye and locked up his bike before heading into school. He was five minutes early, so he took a moment to breathe and mentally map out his day.

Then Allison passed by, pace fast and her eyes on her cell phone. She smelled nice. Really nice. 

Feeling a little bit like a creep, he followed her inside. “Today, I am seizing the day,” he muttered to himself. Today was the day he was going to say hello to her. Today was the day he was going to introduce himself. Today was the day- 

Scott’s head shot up when the late bell rang. Five minutes early? Ha, try five minutes _late_. “Today, I am not seizing the day because I am late. Oh God, I am so late.”

“I’m so freaking late,” Allison blurted out in front of him, taking off in a run. Too bad they didn’t have the same class. They could have bonded over it.

Scott took a page from her book and ran. Three minutes later, he was tripping into his morning English class. Fortunately for him, while the class had books open, they were still chatting to each other idly. The teacher was still writing something on the board, which was a sign he hadn’t taken roll yet. 

Scott slid into his seat, dropping his backpack to the ground. He leaned over to see what page Stiles was open to, but, whatever Stiles was looking at? That did _not_ look like A Tale of Two Cities.

Scott dug through his backpack and put on his reading glasses before leaning in. Then he abruptly blanched.

“Cause of death? Dude!”

Stiles shot him an annoyed look, curling protectively around his book—and the newspaper articles stacked inside. “Dude, don’t like, read.”

Scott settled back in his chair, sighing. Stiles was obsessed with the Hale murders, and had been since the first day Scott met him. Scott had even been roped into Stiles’ “investigations” a time or two, but they never really got anywhere. Worse, the older they got, the less charming adults found it. 

Scott had to take a stand in sophomore year after that one trespassing incident got his mom involved. Scott put his foot down and refused to take part in it anymore. It almost ruined their friendship. It survived, but things between them were different now. There was… distance.

Sometimes, Scott wished he didn’t do that. If he hadn’t, at least he’d be in the know. At least he’d have the knowledge necessary to fight back against all the bad rumors that were popping up about Stiles. Because, the older Stiles got, the less he looked like Encyclopedia Brown and the more he looked like Dexter Morgan planning his next hit.

Scott looked at Stiles, his mouth open to say something. What, he didn’t know, but he knew something should be said.

That was when he saw the letter on the floor which Stiles must have dropped. 

After a moment, Scott leaned over to scoop it off the ground. It was old, worn thin by time. There was no return address, but Stiles’ name was on the front—Stiles’ _real_ first name. Stiles didn’t hand that out lightly.

Hesitating, Scott traced the betraying edge of a letter through the envelope, curiosity delaying him. The writing on the front was narrow, masculine, but with a slight flair that spoke of extra penmanship lessons. Or possible calligraphy skills. 

Scott really wanted to open that letter. 

He didn’t. 

“Hey.” Scott tapped Stiles’ shoulder with the envelope, handing it over.

Stiles blinked in surprise. “Thanks.” Scott watched him slide it in the notebook with care before turning back to the gruesome reading.

Scott put his head down on the table. It was gonna be a long day.

-

It was a long day— a really horrendously long day.

“Busted.”

Allison almost choked on her mouthful of ice cream. She swiped a hand over her lip and spun around to see her father coming through the door, eyes tired and jeans flecked with water from the rain outside.

Chris put his umbrella on the counter and took off his gloves, gazing briefly at his hands. “To think that the ice cream bandit was one of our own.” He looked up then, his face a mockery of pain. “How could you betray us so? For shame, Allison.”

Allison extended a spoon in his direction, expression grave. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Oh, sweet bribery.” His suppressed smile blossomed into a full fledged grin as he accepted her offering. “Don’t tell your mother.” Chris carved out a corner of the ice cream, turning to lean against the counter as he savored the sweet treat. “So. How’s school?”

Allison swallowed her bite. “School is school.”

“And vague is vague,” Chris responded knowingly. “Have you met any boys?” When she just looked at him, he raised his eyebrows and said, questioningly, “Girls?”

Allison rolled her eyes. “I’ve met plenty of people, platonically.”

“Oh, platonically. What about, hm, romantically?”

She shot him a look. “There’s no way I’m going to do that.”

He looked confused by that. “Why not?”

“We move _all the time_. Why would I set myself up for that kind of drama?” Allison stabbed her spoon in the ice cream viciously. “The short lived happiness, the sadness, the moving, the promise of a long distance relationship, the inevitable breakup…” She looked up at him. “Dad, I wouldn’t even have friends right now if Lydia Martin hadn’t pushed her way into my life.” She looked down again, forming a ball in her treat. “It’s like my life is an endless pattern of pauses.”

“And that’s our fault.”

Allison realized how all that sounded. “Dad-”

“No. It is our fault,” Chris said. He sighed. “Well, you’re almost nineteen. You’re an adult.” He smiled once, sadly. “I’m surprised you haven’t run off and done your own thing.”

She straightened up slightly at that. “Well, I’m a good daughter.”

“You’re an excellent daughter,” Chris agreed. Allison ducked her head and smiled at her feet. “And, I think… it’s unfair, what we’re doing to you. This is your senior year. It’s supposed to be the best one. The most fun one.” A frown passed over his face, then Chris said, slowly, “What would you say if I said you could finish out the rest of the school year here?”

“Are you kidding me? That’d be-” Her breath hitched slightly in her chest. She started again. “That’d be _amazing_.” 

“I still have to run this by your mom, but… I think we can do this for you.” He smiled. “So. Be social. Have fun. Enjoy yourself.”

Allison leapt forward, encasing her dad in a hug. “Oh my God, thank you so much.” She squeezed him tight. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

He hugged her back and then pulled away to say, “Now, this is not a license to go wild. You can have fun within reason. No drinking, no drugs, no orgies.”

Allison rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, Dad.”

Chris frowned as he tried to think of boundaries. He started ticking things off on his hands. “One party a week, with exceptions nearer to graduation. Three dates a week—and, no, they don’t have to be the same person.”

Allison laughed at that. “Wow. You think I’m some kind of heartbreaker?”

“I don’t know. I just want you to be happy. And safe.” Chris crossed his arms over his chest. “And I want your date to always be aware that I have many, many guns, and can and will hunt him or her across state lines, if I must.”

Allison covered her face with her hand and smothered a snort. “Oh great. I’m going to be alone forever.”

“I highly doubt that. You’re an Argent. People will be beating down your door.” His smile dimmed.

She peeked at him through her fingers. “You’re regretting this already, aren’t you.”

“A little.” 

“Then I’m going to leave before you take it back.” Allison looked at him a little longer and then laughed, putting her ice cream away. She was just about to skip out of the kitchen when her father called her back.

“Allison.” She turned to look at him. He looked so very serious all of a sudden. “You know why we move so much, right?”

“Yes, Dad,” Allison said, subdued. 

They needed to find Kate.


	4. Chapter 4

_2004_

Like Allison, Aunt Kate was the baby of her family. She was only a few years older than Allison herself, which made her an honorary older sister. Allison adored her. She always felt like there was a connection between the two of them, some sort of magnetic pull.

Kate lived with Allison’s grandfather, Gerard Argent.

Allison didn’t like him. At all, really. First, because he kept Kate away from her, and second, because he didn’t seem to like _her_. It seemed like the natural thing to do for a child her age—to hate that which hated you. 

He came over for Christmas that year, arms full of presents. After talking to her parents for a bit, he suddenly focused on Allison and sat down with her, smiling benignly. He wanted to play tea and house with her, so he gently guided her in that direction. 

Although she didn’t like him, Allison was an obedient child. She humored him for a while before she got bored and decided to show him what she was learning in her kickboxing class. At her age, it was mostly just a lot of tumbling and dancing around, but her parents always seemed proud. 

It was then that she realized that his smile stopped reaching his eyes.

Later, she listened in on the private conversation between Gerard and her parents. The eavesdropping was mostly automatic. Most of the talk went in one ear and out the other, the rhythm of voices both natural and soothing to her.

Then Gerard’s voice got ugly.

“… and explain why you are allowing that wretched creature to learn such things?” 

Victoria’s response had an arctic chill. “Don’t tell me how to raise my child.”

“She’s no child, you fool,” Gerard said with great certainty, his voice rolling with power. “She’s an abomination.”

Allison mouthed the word thoughtfully. She missed the next couple sentences, preoccupied with the feeling of the word abomination on her lips.

She tuned in when her father’s voice got tight with rare, vicious anger. “-and what the hell have you been doing to Kate?”

Gerard seemed to pull back at that, somehow satisfied. Somehow amused. “Hm yes. She’s quite docile now, isn’t she. Maybe when you get on your knees and beg me for forgiveness, I will give you a few pointers on how to deal with-“

His words made her feel ugly inside. She stopped listening and ran to Kate in the other room.

Kate was nineteen years old. She was sitting on the couch, face towards Chris’ office—clearly eavesdropping, as Allison was. She lifted an arm and Allison burrowed into her, taking comfort in her warmth.

In hindsight, Kate probably needed the comfort more. She looked worn out and pale. The veins in her arms and neck stood out, dark under the tissue-paper substance of her skin. She tightened her grip around Allison, lifting her free hand to her own face. She sniffled into a wad of used and stained Kleenexes.

“Aunt Kate.”

“Yes, my pretty, pretty Ally?” Kate said, exhausted.

“Are you dying?” 

Kate snorted. “No way, it’s just…” She grimaced. “I have to behave. He won’t let me see you anymore on my own.” She pulled Allison more fully on her lap, looking at her up and down. “You’ve gotten so big since I saw you last. Who knows when I’ll see you next?”

Kate looked so sad that Allison pushed off and ran upstairs, pulling out a picture locket from one of her drawers. She’d found the heavy, antiquated thing at a yard sale. It wasn’t hard to get her dad to buy it for her, even if it was too unwieldy to wear. 

She’d hunted down a school picture of herself and cut it to size, fitting it in the necklace months ago. She’d planned on giving it to her mother for her next birthday. But Kate needed it more.

Necklace swinging from her grip, Allison ran back downstairs, presenting it to Kate with flair. “Ta da!” 

Kate looked shocked, then pleased. “You’re such a good girl.” She bent her neck, letting her niece slip the necklace around her head. Then she hugged Allison tight, so tight Allison almost couldn’t breathe.

Gerard and Kate left an hour later. Allison tried to argue for more time, but her mother made a quelling gesture.

With a sound of exertion, Gerard leaned over to her level, chuckling lightly when she dodged his pat to her head. “You should come home with me sometime, Allison. I have a place just for you.” It was strange how something said with a smile could still sound so much like a threat. Allison took a big step behind her mother, suddenly afraid.

Kate said her goodbyes next.

Chris had a complicated, tortured expression on his face. “Kate.” 

Kate ignored him, bending down to kiss Allison’s cheek. She brushed some of Allison’s hair away from her ear and whispered, “He won’t be here forever. I promise you that, sweetie.” She cupped Allison’s face and smoothed some of her hair back before standing and walking back to the car.

Two weeks later, Gerard’s house had burnt down. They had found her grandfather’s hand, charred to the bone, only recognizable by his heavy family ring. The rest of his body was thought to have been consumed by the heat.

Kate was never found.

-

_2013_

Allison was drowsy the next morning. She could hear the grumbling of the coffee machine, the warning clicks of the gas on the stove, and her mother’s humming. Anticipating breakfast, Allison got dressed and then lurched downstairs, plagued with the feeling she was forgetting something important before last night’s events sunk in. 

She skipped the rest of the steps, hopping down with ease before skidding around the corner.

“Tell me you’re okay with us staying until graduation.”

Her mother was standing in the kitchen, measuring ingredients for omelets. She kept her eyes on the work. “As your mother, I feel obligated to inform you that I don’t take orders.” There was a pause and then Victoria shot Allison an impish look over her shoulder. “But, yes. I’m okay with staying until June.”

Ecstatic, Allison did a little dance, before hugging her mother. She pulled away quickly, clapping giddily.

Victoria smiled. “You’re easy to please. Watch the knife. And pull out the juice, would you?”

Feeling agreeable, Allison danced over to the fridge, pulling out a pitcher full of orange juice. 

Chris walked in, paper in hand. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Victoria replied, distracted by a disobedient plume of flame. Allison just beamed at him, pouring all three of them glasses. 

Allison and her dad quickly set the table. They tried to make breakfast a quick affair in their household while also preserving the tradition of sitting down with each other. Sometimes it didn’t work—alarms weren’t set early enough, snooze functions were abused, etc. But they tried.

“Drink your juice, Allison,” her father prompted, sliding into his seat. Victoria came around with the omelets, parceling them out. They smelled heavenly.

Making a face at her dad, Allison took a sip of her glass. At his continued gaze, she rolled her eyes and hammered it back. Her parents were weird about her getting her vitamins.

“Good?” he asked, finally smiling.

Allison stuck out her tongue. “Tastes like ash, like always.”

There was a clang. Victoria had dropped her spatula to the floor. “Butterfingers,” she said with a forced little laugh, picking it up.

Feeling bad—and knowing that every product coming out of their kitchen, barring dessert, was firmly her mother’s dominion—Allison offered apologetically, “Maybe I drank it too fast?”

Victoria nodded. “Maybe.” She squeezed Allison’s shoulder and sat down.

They ate their breakfast in relative silence. Then it was a blurred race to get where they needed to go and do what they needed to do. In Allison’s case that meant school.

Having her own car was amazing and beautiful. Although Allison didn’t win a whole lot of arguments with her parents, she was glad she had pressed forward with that one. Freedom to move was a wonderful thing.

Fourth period came and, with it, her first bump of the day. She thought she had a runny nose, only to wipe it away and see that it was a little worse than that. Excusing herself, she went to the nearest rest room.

Once in the closest girl’s bathroom, Allison grabbed a fistful of paper towels to mop up the mess. She made an exaggerated face at herself in the mirror. Ew.

Seconds later, the door to the hallway opened and Lydia entered with an imperious click of her shoes. When Allison looked up at her through the mirror, Lydia was smirking smugly, eyes focused on her phone.

“Nose bleed, huh? A weak excuse for ditching class.”

“How’d you get out?” Allison asked thickly.

“You’d be surprised how quickly male teachers let you go when you imply you have urgent lady business.” Finally, finally, Lydia looked up. Her expression dropped into one of genuine concern. “Oh. _Oh._ You actually have a- let me see that.”

Lydia made her turn around, back to the sink, so she could look at it. Allison resisted, not wanting to be fussed over.

“I get them all the time. It’s not a big deal.” It was a weather thing. Allison tilted her head up.

Lydia forced her head back down. “Down, not up. You don’t want that in your lungs.” Allison obediently followed her orders, keeping her head down. She replaced her paper towels with ones Lydia gave her throwing the old ones in the trash.

Lydia glanced at her paper towels, and then did a double take. “Uh, Allison, honey. Do you have some sort of blood disorder?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“You might need to get that checked out. I’m pretty sure blood’s not supposed to be that color. Like, ever.” Making a face, Lydia threw the paper towels out and walked back over to Allison, rubbing between her shoulder blades.

“I’m fine,” Allison said quickly. Her aunt got nose bleeds all the time too. It was no big deal. “Besides, you will not believe what my parents just told me.”

Lydia was thrilled to hear that Allison was staying for the rest of the year. She clapped her hands together gleefully and then pounced for a hug. “You can really do things now! Like that cute guy from your French class?”

“Oh please.” Allison folded the paper towel to a small square, pressing it to her nose. The flow had pretty much dried up by now, but, just in case… “Actually, I was thinking about that documentary contest. I told you about it, didn’t I?”

Lydia sighed, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “I swear, every time I think ‘Oh, Allison can’t get any lamer’, you go and outdo yourself.”

“The first prize is a big deal. It’s five grand.”

“Honey, I spend that much on shoes in a weekend.”

Rich kids. Allison rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but I’m not just interested in the money. I also want to use it as an excuse to look at something that’s been bugging me for a while.” 

“Such as?”

“Have you heard of the Hale Murders?” Allison asked. A strange look passed over Lydia’s face. “What? Has it been done before?”

“What? No.” Lydia laughed, tightly, fiddling with the edge of her skirt. “No one’s done a documentary on crime before. Then again, we don’t get much crime around here. Just vandalism and loud house parties.”

“And unsolved multiple homicides in the middle of the woods!”

Lydia nodded absently, staring at the floor. Then, abruptly, she said, “The girl. The youngest. She just…” Lydia trailed off. After a moment, she shrugged. “She used to be in our class. We weren’t friends or anything but…”

“You knew her.”

Lydia nodded again. Then she visibly shook herself out of the dark mood. “Well, can’t do anything about the past.” Lydia forced a smile. She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. “So. What’s this about you and Stiles Stilinski dating now?” She raised an eyebrow when Allison just stared at her, speechless.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

-

Scott trudged out of class, downtrodden and feeling as if there was a huge weight on his shoulders. Yeah, the weight of his inadequacy, more like. Incompetence. Cowardice.

Too slow, too stupid, too late.

In the crowds of students fleeing from their classes, Scott suddenly saw the back of Stiles’ head. His friend was facing his locker, cracking it open with one hand while juggling his books with the other. 

Reluctantly, Scott walked over to him, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. _Don’t be an ass_ , he ordered himself. _Don’t be an ass._

Stiles shot him a questioning look, but otherwise kept shoving his stuff in his locker. “Why the long face, Eeyore?” He slipped one last notebook inside his locker, and then threw his entire weight behind the door, forcing it closed. The lock engaged, but papers were still poking out through the bottom.

“Nothing. I’m just… I’m happy for you.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, clearly just humoring him. He turned around and leaned against his locker. “Why?”

Scott rubbed his eyes. “You.” He sighed. “And _Allison_. Together. I heard. And I just wanted you to know that-”

The noise that came out of Stiles’ throat was part cackle, part gasp. “Whoa, me and Allison?” Stiles took a wider stance, gesturing at himself. “Me. And _Allison_? First things first. If I was interested in Allison, I’d let you know, bro. I know how much you want to be the next Mr. Allison Argent.” Scott ducked his head, embarrassed, but also smiled because… wouldn’t that be great? 

Stiles continued. “But I’m not interested in her, not like that. She’s not my type.” 

Scott considered that and nodded. Stiles’ type tended to be snarky and mean. But then what Stiles was saying sunk in and he perked up slightly. “So you’re not dating.”

“No, we’re not dating. God.” Stiles paused, vibrating in place. Then, abruptly, he said, “Besides, isn’t she dating Matt?”

 _Thank you,_ Scott thought, relieved Stiles understood him. “I know, right? I just assumed, what with all the pictures he has online of her-“

“Right? Ugh.” Stiles scratched the back of his neck, making a face. “But she doesn’t really talk about him, so I’m not sure how well that’s working out. Plus her Facebook says she’s single, so…”

It was mean, but Scott was strangely cheered by that. Not that he wanted Allison to be sad or anything, but… really? Matt? Didn’t someone pull a restraining order against that guy?

Then a thought occurred to him. “You’re Facebook friends?” he bleated, hurt. 

Scott was jealous, okay? He wanted to be internet friends with her—not to be creepy or anything. He’d just wish her happy birthday or like her statuses or something totally not creepy. And if she played those social game apps, he would totally answer all of her requests for stuff! He didn’t play Farmville, but he would, if, like, she needed a hoe or something.

Stiles sighed at him. Just then, Allison rounded the corner with Lydia and Jackson in tow. Scott tried to hide behind Stiles, but he wasn’t having any of that. 

“You know what, no. I’m sick of this.” 

Scott was alarmed when he suddenly felt himself being pulled along. “Wait, wait, what are you-” Stiles just gripped his arm harder and kept dragging him along. Scott didn’t fight it. Stiles was not above digging his nails in and drawing blood. Stiles was mean.

“Hey, Allison, Lydia, Jerkface. What’s up?” Stiles shoved Scott between them. “Allison, remember Scott? This is him. Say hi, Scott.”

“Hi,” Scott said awkwardly. Jackson was scowling at Stiles over Lydia’s head, but Scott hardly noticed because _oh my God, Allison._ Allison was looking at him. Allison was making eye contact.

Scott just stared back like a weirdo, overwhelmed and flushed and… how did people date? Like ever?

Allison looked at him a little longer, eyes narrowing. Then, suddenly, she dimpled slightly, tilting her head to the side. Oh God, she was adorable. She was puppies and rainbows and cotton candy, and was he mouth breathing? He was so mouth breathing.

Lydia stepped forward, pulling away from a disgruntled Jackson. Scott was shaken out of his headspace because one did not simply ignore Lydia Martin. Not if one wanted to keep their dignity.

Fortunately, her focus was on Stiles. “I was just talking about you. You and your weird obsession with me. Remember that?”

Stiles snorted, and then shared a look with Allison. “We kid about it now, but she practically ripped my heart out and sacrificed it to her dark god, Cthulhu.”

Jackson let out an involuntary laugh at that, but quickly covered it up with a cough. Dick.

Lydia pouted. “Hey, I didn’t reject you _that_ harshly…”

“The PA system was involved,” Scott said finally, annoyed. It was really awful of her. Stiles didn’t come out of his room for days. There was an intervention and everything.

Lydia winced at the reminder. “Okay, yeah, that was harsh.” Jackson was looking smug again. Somehow, Scott then knew it hadn’t been entirely her idea. He redirected his glare at Jackson.

“She’s a walking talking Bon Jovi song,” Stiles said candidly. “But we’re buds now, so it’s all cool.”

Lydia tugged Allison’s elbow, eyes calculating. “Speaking of being _buds_ , I was also just telling Allison that she should really link up with you about this documentary she’s making.”

Stiles blinked. “Sorry, I know nothing about documentaries. I mean, give me an hour with Wikipedia and I might be able to-”

Lydia interrupted him. “But you _do_ know a lot about the topic she wants to cover. It’s another one of your obsessions. The Hale Family Murders?”

“Oh. That.” Stiles scratched behind his ear, seemingly lost for words. “The newspapers called it the Hale House Massacre, actually.” Stiles started to say something else but trailed off, staring at his shoes. His expression was a strange mixture of miserable and angry. His grip on Scott’s shoulder was so tight, it hurt.

The awkward silence was finally broken when Allison spoke up, looking both apologetic and determined. “I want to drum up some interest on what happened. Maybe answer some questions of my own. And who knows? With enough interest, the cops might look at the case again from a different angle. Maybe even solve it.”

“That would be… amazing,” Stiles admitted slowly. He lifted his gaze and smiled a little. His grip on Scott loosened, just enough for Scott to reach around and pat his back.

Scott was probably the only person at school who knew why the crime was extremely personal to Stiles. He was probably the only one who was aware of how private Stiles was about it too. His obsession with the murder was public knowledge, sure, but he’d stopped talking about it out loud by the time he turned fifteen.

“Like anyone is interested in that nonsense anymore,” Jackson muttered, rolling his eyes. He let out a noise when Lydia elbowed him, hard. “What?”

Scott could see Stiles start to bristle up like a puffer fish. He moved to intervene. “Um, Allison? You might have to ask permission to film about that.”

Jackson snorted at him. “Are you that much of a goody-two shoe, McCall? She should ask someone? Really?”

Allison shushed him. “No, he has a good point,” she said. She looked at Scott. “Who do you think I’d have to ask?”

Scott shrugged, feeling stupid again.

Jackson sighed, as if burdened by their stupidity. Looking to the ceiling, he said, “In all seriousness, I think I have an idea of where to start.”

\- 

Apparently, Jackson’s idea was none other than his father, who worked as a lawyer.

“McCall might be an idiot, but he has a point. You’re going to want to cover your ass, legally speaking. And who better than my dad?” With that, Jackson gave her his number.

Later that day, Allison talked to the man on the phone. The first thing he told her was not to call him again until she had all of her ducks all lined up in a row first. He gave her a few pointers about where to start and then told her to come in at any time when she was ready. 

Getting ready took two weeks. First, she had to come up with a storyboard and a plan of attack. Then she had to submit a proposal to the historical society—not because they could say she couldn’t do it, but rather because they had connections she could use if they were interested enough in her topic. 

As it turned out, they were. They got back to her in eight days, outlining the difficulties of the project and what she needed to do to handle those. A lot of the things they had to say were common sense or old news, but the one thing that jumped at her was the suggestion to use the old house as the set. 

It was abandoned public property, but, with the right permits, she could get temporary permission for her and a crew to be there. 

Her crew. That was another thing she didn’t think about. 

Well, really, she had thought about it, but she hadn’t dwelled on it. She had Lydia, who was bored and just pushy enough to be an asset. She also had Matt, who promised the skills of his AV Club.

“We were looking for a project anyway,” he said casually, waving off her protests. What he didn’t tell her was that the AV Club was maybe five people strong, on a good day. She needed more than that to make this work.

She wasn’t exactly rolling around in money, so she couldn’t hire anyone. It would have to be a volunteer crew, which was problematic. But Lydia seemed certain that getting enough people wouldn’t be a problem, so Allison left that for her, the social butterfly, to handle.

As for the historical society, they really did her a solid. In her proposal, she mentioned the kind of equipment she had—standard laptops, her phone, a camera, and video recorder that had seen better days. 

They responded by having one of their interns drop off five boxes of donated equipment two weeks later. She and Matt had been sitting around her kitchen table, discussing the reenactment scenes. Allison wasn’t a huge fan of his suggestions regarding the death scene display (“Jesus Christ, Allison, it was a murder scene. You don’t need to soft serve it.”) and was glad for the distraction of the delivery. 

The intern, sweating and breathless, left the boxes in the foyer for Allison’s perusal before scampering off. Allison flipped open lids idly, checking out the loot. She didn’t have any idea what most of it was, but it reduced Matt to geekgasms, so she assumed it was good. 

She left him to the boxes, smiling every time she heard an exclaimed “Neat!” from the other room. 

She crossed his notes out. No gory death scenes, damnit. It was bad enough the first time around.

That night, Allison revised her proposal and sent it back to the historical society. She got the final okay from them, plus a box of specially programmed laptops three days later. She was officially good on equipment.

As for her crew, Lydia promised that there would be anywhere from fifteen to twenty-five people there, all ready to help. Allison was borrowing lighting from the AV club. Though none of them could staff her crew thanks to their busy performance schedule, the drama club came through in a big way by offering audio equipment and props. Buzzing from the high of watching everything come together, Allison did her final edits on the script and stage directions during one long, sleepless night.

She was about as ready to go as she could be. It was time to talk to Mr. Whittemore.

When everything was prepared, Jackson went with her to his dad’s office, giving her a ride and everything. As enthusiastic as he was about involving his father, at the time of action, he was prickly and tense—even snappish and a bit mean.

Nevertheless, Allison let him sit in on the meeting, needing the familiar, if not entirely friendly, face. 

She sat across from Jackson’s father and gave him a quick overview of the proposal, the equipment she had, and the needs of her project. She also mentioned the historical society’s suggestion that she film at the Hale house itself, which provided the perfect transition into the real reason for coming to Mr. Whittemore.

“…but all this is for nothing if I don’t get some kind of approval from them,” she said, winding to a close.

The Hales were gone. Even the survivors were impossible to get a hold of. She didn’t know the names of the minors who had been involved, but she would have thought at least Peter or Laura would have an internet trail. 

“You don’t necessarily need their approval. The crime is of public record.”

Allison looked up from her notes, raising her eyebrows. “But what if they sue me?”

Whittemore smiled a little at that, leaning back in his chair. “Allison, they could sue you for breathing too hard in their presence. We live in a very litigious society, after all.” He pressed the tips of his fingers together, clearly thinking. “Table that for now. We’ll deal with the Hales later. What about the house?”

Allison dutifully reported her findings. “It’s technically county property and it’s been abandoned for a while. I’ve been reliably informed that I would need some sort of permit to film there, which… I don’t really understand?”

Whittemore looked distracted. “It’s a city ordinance. Don’t worry about it.” His gaze shot back to her. “Anyway, the permits with the shortest duration are the easiest to get. I can help you with that.”

Allison perked up. “That would be fantastic.”

Whittemore put his chin on his hand, looking through his calendar. “If you’re using other high school students as your crew, I’m assuming you’d want to film during winter break?” 

Allison sucked in a breath. So soon? Winter break was two weeks away. She could feel her heart rate pick up slightly. She laughed a little. “Yes, that would be amazing.”

Whittemore was still looking through his calendar. “And, Jackson, will you be helping?”

Jackson stiffened up at being addressed. Then he cleared his throat. “Yes, sir,” he said stiltedly.

Whittemore nodded. “Then I’ll expedite it.” He reached for something in his file cabinet, and then passed it to Allison across the table. “You’ll need to have your volunteers and their guardians fill out waivers like this. Take this copy and make more. They’ll cover you for liability issues and whatnot.” Whittemore stood, straightening his jacket. “You’ll have the okay to film there within a week, week and a half. If the house passes inspection, that is.”

They shook hands. Allison walked out of his office, dizzy, and clutching the paperwork to her chest. Everything was finally happening. It was finally moving forward. 

She was ecstatic. She was frightened. She was humbled. She felt like she was floating on a cloud while simultaneously being dragged down by an anchor.

It was only when she sat down in Jackson’s car that she realized that Jackson still resembled a statue or a particularly handsome wooden doll. Petrified was the word she was looking for.

The car started up. Allison waited a beat before speaking. “You have an interesting relationship with your dad.”

His jaw visibly tightened. “Yeah.”

Allison hesitated, not sure if she really wanted to get in this with him. But, shitty personality or not, Jackson _was_ her friend.

“For me, it’s my mom,” she confided. “She’s scary.”

Jackson relaxed slightly at the wheel. “My mom’s the soft touch.” He swallowed. “I just... I feel like I always have to _prove_ myself, you know? Show that I’m worth his time.”

Allison didn’t offer any empty words. She just looked out the window and said, “With my mom, it’s like… she’s always watching. Always waiting for me to do something. Something bad.” She laughed once, wincing. “Actually, it’s like that with my dad too. He just hides it better.”

“Well, that ridiculous. You’re the nicest girl I know,” Jackson said, pulling out of the parking lot. “And that’s not a line.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” Allison rapped her knuckles against his arm. “And, hey, your dad just bent over backwards for this project.”

“Yeah, so?”

“He didn’t do it for me. He did it for _you_.” 

Suddenly shy, Jackson looked away. He started smiling. “You don’t need to kiss my ass. I’m already invested.”

Allison huffed out an outraged breath. “You’re such a dick,” she said, pinching his side.

They almost got in an accident, but it was worth it to hear him laugh.

 


	5. Chapter 5

All the pieces had been set into place. All that was left was the inevitable countdown. Now that she was seeing her plans come into fruition, she was excited. And terrified. And elated.

Did she say she did a final edit of her scripts? Ha. Ha ha. _No._ There was no such thing as a final edit, apparently. She found herself doing and redoing her storyboards, making and deleting her scripts. It was just- they weren’t-

They didn’t _feel_ right. Something crucial was missing, no matter what Matt said.

He tried to take her storyboards away from her once. She almost took his head off.

Matt made her nervous. She didn’t quite know what to make of him. He said all the right things and did all the right actions. He knew when to push and when to back off. He especially knew when to retreat for the day and when to come back, offering both apologies and his sympathy.

He was, in short, perfect.

Allison didn’t trust that. She didn’t trust the way he looked at her. She didn’t trust the way he didn’t demand credit. She didn’t trust the way he so eagerly offered his services.

Which was… crazy, right? Matt had been the perfect helper, the MVP of the whole experience. He was patient. He was supportive. He was selfless. 

But she just couldn’t trust him. 

She didn’t know what he wanted—that was the problem. She would have felt a lot better if he had tried to claim co-authorship or whatever with her. But he didn’t and so Matt’s motivations remained a mystery. She wanted to believe that he was just being a good friend, but… ugh.

She shelved those thoughts for now.

That morning, Mr.Whittemore emailed her to tell her that an inspection team had been organized to check out the property tomorrow. It was nonnegotiable. The city—and, by extension, Whittemore himself—would not allow a bunch of teenagers to hang out in an abandoned building if it was structurally compromised.

The team was going to check the safety of the place, then report back to Whittemore. Once they gave him the okay, the permit was as good as hers. 

Did she mention she was excited? 

To distract herself, Allison decided that she should go over the scripts that afternoon one last time. But, as soon as she decided on that course, she found herself palming her keys and heading out to the car. She doubled back and got her video recorder. Might as well take some outside shots while she appeased that itchy feeling in her gut.

Allison announced her departure. From the study, her mother shouted a good-bye with a reminder to be back before dinner. Her dad was making tacos.

Mmm, tacos. Allison left with a bounce in her step.

The old Hale house was just as abandoned and sad looking as it had been the first morning she woke up there. However, when not bathed in the gloomy light of pre-sun rise, the house looked almost… homey. Like a place where people once lived, rather than just a creepy monument to their memory.

She lifted the recorder and pressed the start.

Allison walked around the place for an hour, taking different shots with various panning techniques. She didn’t know which one would appeal to her most in the final product, but she supposed she didn’t have to worry about that decision until the editing process.

Satisfied with her work, Allison nodded once to herself and turned away from the house, turning off the recorder. She started walking back to her car, which was parked a little ways away on the main road.

She got into a rhythm and started humming to herself idly, relaxing further and further into a state of contented numbness as leaves and branches broke under her feet. The path to the house was grown over and poorly maintained, for obvious reasons.

There was a heavy patch of trees in front of her, all grown into and around each other. She couldn’t walk through them, so she walked around them. 

When she cleared the clump, she looked up and saw-

The old Hale house, wreathed in late afternoon light.

Allison stared, breathless and confused. She looked behind her, knowing she had walked in a straight line. How the hell did she make a circle without hitting the road? The road was right there, less than fifteen minutes away from the house—ten if she walked briskly.

She looked at her watch and had to suck in a breath. Somehow, she had lost three hours—and her _video recorder_ , Jesus Christ. She just had that in her _hand_.

Then she spied on something more worrying and had to sit down on a stump. She examined a flaking brown trail of _something_ going from her elbow to her wrist—or was that from her wrist to her elbow? It smelled thick, and coppery. It was under her fingernails too, clumping in the lines of her palm and-

She flinched when her cell phone rang. Fumbling, she unlocked it and answered the call. “Hello?” 

“Hello, Allison!” Lydia chirped, sounding very pleased with herself. “I wanted to tell you that you don’t need to worry about the bodies-”

“ _What_?” Allison’s heart went into double time. Her vision started to darken, close around her, and she stared at her hands, betrayed. Had she- did she-

Lydia sounded confused. “The… bodies? The people? Your volunteer crew?” When she finally understood what Lydia was talking about, Allison let out a low, hysterical laugh and abruptly covered her mouth. “Allison, honey, are you alright?”

“Yes, of course.” Bodies. Jesus Christ. She pressed a hand against her racing heart. She stood, but had to sit down really quick again. Her legs were jelly.

“Just keep talking,” Allison said, standing again. She started walking to the main road, obsessively checking her watch every few seconds.

Lydia humored her, talking about school and college prospects and some college senior she was tutoring who could not—could _not_ —get permutations and combinations.

“And I’ve tried everything, Allison, everything. I get so angry about it too. I think this is the sign from the universe that I don’t have the temperament to be a teacher.”

Allison let out a sigh at the sight of her car. She jogged over to it, ready to get out of this place. She jumped into the driver’s side, doing a brief double take at the passenger side—because what was in the other seat, but her missing video recorder?

Allison clenched her eyes shut, then determinedly stuck the key in the ignition. No, nope, not going to deal with that. She was just… tired. That was the only logical explanation.

With forced cheer, Allison said, “You’re an angel.”

Lydia paused in the middle of a diatribe about Sally Millhouse McMahon, her mortal enemy. “I know,” she said. She didn’t ask why Allison needed to hear her voice, nor why she was acting weird. She didn’t even demand to finish her rant.

After a few back and forths, they said their goodbyes, promising to talk later.

Allison pressed her head against her steering wheel. “You’re just tired,” she coached herself carefully. “You lost track of time. You’re just tired.” She clenched her eyes shut, taking in a deep breath. 

Then she started up the car and drove home. She felt almost normal again by the time she reached her front door.

It was open and unlocked, which was unusual.

Shrugging, Allison walked in. “I’m home!” she called out, closing the door behind her. There were three duffle bags at the foot of the stairs in a telling formation. She froze.

She sucked in a betrayed breath. They…

They had _promised_.

Allison found her father in his office, digging through the contents of his safe. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest and leaned against the door frame. 

“What’s this?”

“We got a lead on Kate,” Chris said, pulling out a stack of bills from the safe.

Allison deflated. Stupid, she thought. Selfish. She followed Chris when he walked back to the duffle bags. Trying to be helpful, she grabbed two, then a third one, then a fourth one when it looked like her dad was struggling with his one. 

Chris did a double-take, looking at her with a strange expression. Then he smiled. “Thanks.”

They started loading up the back of the car, moving with each other seamlessly. There had been a lot of packing and unpacking in this family.

“Where is she?” Allison asked.

“Northern California.”

Allison scrunched her nose. “We are in Northern California.”

“It’s, uh, north-er.” Her father offered her a sheepish smirk.

Just as they got the last bag in, Allison muttered, “I’m guessing you don’t want me to go.” They never wanted her to come with them when they followed a lead.

The whole family might have moved a lot for Kate, but it seemed like her parents did an awful lot to keep her and her aunt from ever actually meeting. It had frustrated her, once, knowing all she did to contribute to the search was settle down, unpack, and go to school before repacking and starting the whole cycle again.

But that was just the way her parents liked to do things. And, as she expected, Chris shook his head at her words. 

“Not so much, no.” He smiled at her fondly, if sadly. 

Allison flapped her arms awkwardly and then threw caution in the wind, hugging him. He hugged her back tightly, breathing out so deep, she could feel it in her bones.

Then her mother was coming out, adjusting her jacket. Victoria was wearing muted colors, like Chris, but nevertheless looked as put together as always. As Allison pulled away from her dad, she was given a tentative smile from her mother. 

Victoria stepped up, fiddling with Allison’s locks. “We’re going to be gone for two weeks, tops.” she said, smoothing them out. “No parties, no boys, no wild stuff.”

Allison rolled her eyes. “Mom, come on. It’s me you’re talking to.” Allison was boring.

It was probably best not to mention Christmas. Or New Year’s. Holidays, what holidays? Pssh… Lydia would probably let her come over—would, in fact, demand it. Allison brightened up at that thought.

“Eat your breakfast.” Victoria smiled briefly at her daughter, but it looked like it hurt. 

“Okay?”

Victoria took her hand and, before Allison could pull away, she saw the dried trail up her arm—the dried trail of _something_ that looked and smelled a lot like blood. Victoria paused, mouth pressing into a thin line.

Allison opened her mouth, ready to offer an explanation. She cut herself. She ran over a dog. She tried to nurse a bird back to health.

Victoria blinked several times, suddenly looking fierce and desperate. Then Allison blinked and she looked normal again, if a bit misty eyed. “Don’t forget your juice. I made up several batches so they’ll be cold when you drink them.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Victoria nodded once, sharply, and then hugged Allison. She let go as quickly as she’d swooped in and immediately got into the car. Her father waved from the passenger seat and then the car was pulling out of the drive way.

Allison watched them go. She let out a whoosh of a sigh as they disappeared, feeling abandoned.

Her phone rang. She grinned, answering it.

“Did you forget something?”

Her mom seemed confused. “I’m not sure. Did I tell you to-“

“-drink my juice, yes, Mom. I’ll be fine.” 

Victoria huffed out a breath, not really offended, but playing it up. Then she turned serious. “We’ll be back soon. I promise.”

Allison’s smile softened. She said goodbye again and ended the call. She tapped the corner of her phone against her lips, thinking.

Then she flipped it over phone, making another call. It was answered on the second ring.

“It looks like we’ll be filming sooner than later. Can I ask you for a favor?”

-

There were eight boxes of evidence in the sheriff’s office at home. It wasn’t necessarily alright for him to bring work home, but it was one of those things that both the people above him and below him ignored. They didn’t have enough funding or staffing to enforce a policy to keep the cops from taking an unpaid hour or two at home to piece together a confusing case.

Stiles knew that the only reason his dad even put temptation in his path was because he believed Stiles would respect his boundaries. Sure, Stiles had stolen some evidence before, but he was twelve. He didn’t know any better. But now he knew. Now he was older. Now he was more trustworthy.

Right?

Stiles would normally love to prove his father right, but… Those boxes were from _the Hale murders_. How could he resist that?

Thanks to Allison’s documentary, the sheriff was fielding a lot of requests for information as well as inquires into the details surrounding both the murders and the survivors’ subsequent disappearances. Problem was the case was old—and cold. 

The sheriff had to brush up on the case quite a bit to handle this new interest, not to mention chase down contacts to try and find where the rest of the Hales went. If he couldn’t pick up on their trail, then he might have to open four missing person reports. And if he had to report them officially missing, then there might be backlash against the department for not keeping an eye on the situation—though, really, what could they have done? The Hales were well within their rights to leave Beacon Hills, especially since none of them were suspects. (Well, Derek had been, for about half a second, but Stiles didn’t like to think about that.)

Anyway, it was a mess, a shitstorm —and his dad was right in the middle of it.

Stiles felt for his him—he really did—but he just couldn’t… not, you know? Not when he knew all the evidence was going to go back under lock and key, never to be seen again. He had to look. He had to put his hands on those pieces of evidence he didn’t get to see all those years ago.

The second he heard the cruiser pull out of the driveway, he picked the lock to his dad’s office and dove right in.

Thinking about the Hales hurt sometimes. Okay, so Stiles wasn’t super close with all of them—Peter was weird, Talia was intimidating, and Cora was mean—but he’d still been very used to them. They were neighbors, friends, people you saw all the time. Until you didn’t.

(Derek and Stiles used to be friends. He didn’t like to think about that either.)

Allison had called him for help. She said she’d been reconstructing the timeline of the murders from the newspapers and media coverage, and something just didn’t feel right. 

“If there’s anything that’s, you know, known but not really publicized,” she’d said awkwardly, “could you let me know? Especially if it helps explain what happened.”

He agreed and said he’d get back to her. He could think of three things on the top of his head that weren’t widely publicized, but if he told them immediately, he wouldn’t have an excuse to shatter his father’s trust.

Ugh. 

He cracked open one of the boxes, sifting through mounds and mounds of paperwork and reports. Most of it was familiar, thanks to the last time he stole evidence. This time, he was looking for statements, transcripts of interviews.

He moved to another box, flipping it open. He froze, hair rising on the back of his neck. This one was full of trace evidence bags —bloody clothes, bloody rugs, hair samples. His dad was _really_ not supposed to take these things out of the office—they could literally make or break a case.

Wincing, Stiles gingerly put the top back on, careful not to jostle anything. Then he moved onto to the next one.

Stiles got into a rhythm—scan, assess, set aside, repeat. The coroner’s reports, he took pictures with his phone. He didn’t send them to Allison. They were for his eyes only and he promised himself that he would delete the files after the documentary. These pictures could get his dad in serious trouble. Stiles decided he would just relay the information and pretend he’d overheard it.

He took some more pictures, feeling impatient. These were all files he’d seen before. 

Then, just as he’d resigned himself to failure, he found that the fifth box’s bottom was lined with a bunch of VHSs. He eyed them for a moment. Then, glancing at his watch, he decided to risk it and grabbed the top two, taking them to the living room.

They didn’t have the VHS in there anymore, but he was pretty sure they saved it somewhere. And, yep, there it was in the garage—a dusty VHS player, remote duck taped to the top. Handy.

Walking back to the living room he plugged it into the flat screen, shoved in the first tape, and took a step back.

There was a grumpy flick of static across the screen before an image appeared. Stiles recognized the interrogation room immediately. It wasn’t empty. A pale, dark haired girl was sitting, hunched, on one of the chairs. After a moment, he realized that the girl in the video was none other than Derek’s older sister. 

His chest squeezed at the sight of her. _Laura_. This was not how he liked to remember her. She was fidgeting, rubbing her hands together. This must have been taken soon after the crime scene was discovered because there was mud and blood smeared on her face. She had a wild look to her and had taken to swaying slightly in her seat—a self-soothing gesture, if Stiles ever saw one. 

She jumped when a deputy entered the room.

The man offered her a cup of coffee and gently started asking her questions. What happened? Where were you? Why did you come back from school?

Laura just stared at him blankly, coffee untouched. She seemed incredibly fragile in that moment—all slender angles and wounded eyes. 

The deputy went on a little longer in that vein, asking simple questions and getting no responses. 

After ten minutes, a lawyer came in and told off the deputy. Her parents were dead, her uncle was still in the hospital, and her little sister was on the verge of death. Didn’t he have any compassion?

Stiles pressed the heel of his palm to his mouth, grimacing. Oh, Laura.

As if she heard him, Laura’s head shot up. Her chair shrieked as she shoved back, turning to look at the wall behind her. Then, abruptly, she was on her feet and pushing past the lawyer and out of the frame of the shot. Confused and half-shouting, they both followed her out.

Nothing else happened. Stiles fast-forwarded through the rest of the tape, but the interrogation room remained empty and stayed that way until someone turned the feed off.

Shaking his head in confusion, Stiles picked up the next tape and replaced the old one.

Another interrogation room, another deputy, another Hale. 

Stiles choked on a breath, recognizing him.

This deputy was playing hard ball. Clearly, the lawyer had jumped into the wrong interrogation room. 

“You said before that you knew who did this. Can you elaborate more on that?” When he didn’t get a response, the deputy rounded the table, leaning into his suspect. “Don’t be quiet now. Your girlfriend told us everything.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Derek Hale said hoarsely. 

He was pale, disorientated. He looked like someone who’d just woken up from a nightmare to find out that reality was even worse. Stiles remembered him being confident and pushy, walking around like life’s mysteries were bound to fall neatly into place at his feet. That Derek was nothing like this one.

Stiles really didn’t want to watch this, but he couldn’t look away. 

The deputy looked up at the ceiling with an exaggerated sigh. “Kid, are you aware of what obstruction of justice is?” 

Derek stayed silent.

The deputy leaned into his space even more, lowering his voice. “If you don’t talk to me, you might as well have done it, you hear me?” He was frustrated, his voice venomous. “You might as well have torn open your mother, your father, your uncle, your grandparents with your goddamn teeth-“

With every word he spat out, Derek flinched and wound up into a tighter and tighter ball. When the deputy flung the murders in his face, reminding Derek of all he’d lost, Derek’s face just broke. He covered his face and made an awful noise in his hands, sounding less like a pseudo-adult and more like a child whose whole world just ended.

The deputy straightened up, face triumphant, but before he could press his advantage, the door slammed open.

Derek’s sister pushed past him like a whirlwind. She went to Derek’s side immediately, wrapping around him like a blanket. He gripped her right back, hands flattening against her back.

“Go away,” Laura said. When the deputies didn’t move, she turned, snarling, “ _Go away!_ ”

When the door clicked close, Laura slid down, slipping into the chair with Derek. Without an audience, Derek finally breathed, letting out gasping sobs into his sister’s shoulder.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Derek hissed out, fists clenching into her shirt. “It’s not.”

“It will be, I promise. I’ll take care of you.”

They sat there for a long time, comforting each other, the room echoing with the sounds of Derek’s grief.

The tape ended a few minutes later when someone turned off the video feed.

Stiles brushed tears off of his face, taking the tape out. Sniffling, he settled back on his heels, tapping the VHS against his chest. His mind whirled away wildly. 

In his sophomore year Sociology class, Stiles had taken a field trip. They visited the local jail and the department as a part of the criminology section. Deputy Tara gave them a tour and had spent quite a loving minute or ten talking about their state-of-the-art interrogation rooms. She boasted that you could play death metal on full blast in one and not hear a peep outside. She even let them test it out, her old teacher leanings shining through the cop training. 

The interrogation rooms had been there since the building was built. The station was older than her, she’d told them, tapping on the wall with her palm. It hadn’t needed upgrading since then. 

Stiles rubbed his face, thinking. Somehow, he needed to wrap his head around how Laura had heard Derek through a soundproofed wall.

-

_2005_

There was a high pitched scream. Outrage, betrayal, surprise—it had it all. Then it stopped mid-noise, ending in a sputter and a wet gurgle.

Czesław’s self-control was not all that great. Nor was his stealth, for his target pivoted abruptly to him, pointing a finger at him. She was dripping with red on one side, blue on the other—then a rather fetching purple in the middle where the splash of Derek and Czesław’s paint-infused water balloons had mingled.

“You,” Laura hissed like a demon. Czesław recoiled. “I’m gonna wear your skin as a pelt.”

Normally fearless, even Derek had to think two seconds before bravely darting out from behind his hiding spot. He grabbed Czesław’ hand and dragged him along, racing them around the side of the house. 

Laura shrieked after them, stomping her foot. “ _Derek_! You too? You shit head!”

And then the chase was on. It was half the fun. 

Czesław was a ton of things. Frightened. Excited. Smug. Terrified. His feet hurt from running, his face hurt from laughing. His heart felt like it was going to thump right out of his chest.

They went around the house three times before Laura’s energy started to drop. While Laura lagged around a corner, still yelling at them to stop and submit to her wrath, Derek quietly tucked Czesław and himself through the back door and into the kitchen. At the table, Cora looked up from her homework with a muzzy and unimpressed expression, but Derek didn’t spare her a moment, dragging Czesław through the house and into the next room. And then the next. And the next. 

Derek’s house was big.

Derek stopped the abrupt tour at the start of the stairs. Down they went—quietly and two at a time. The wooden door squeaked traitorously as Derek eased it open. Then they were inside.

The Hales had six shelves splitting up the basement like a maze. There were boxes—oodles and oodles of them. They were full of holiday decorations, old machines, broken things, pictures, and memories. They stacked all the way to the low, wooden beamed ceiling. 

Czesław sneezed immediately, and then reached for the heavy looking video recorder. Derek swatted his hand away from it and started tugging him through the shelves.

“What was that for?” he whined.

“That? That was for ruining it,” Derek whispered. Czesław hung his head. He totally ruined it.

The idea had been to creep around and nail Laura with water balloons, one at a time, when she least expected it. She would have never known who the culprit was, had Czesław not gotten overly excited and thrown another one.

They froze as one when wood started creaking above them. 

Faintly, they could hear, “Cora, have you seen-“

“Shit,” Derek hissed. He looked around, as if trying to find a hiding spot.

He spied a grate in the corner and lunged for it. Straining, he picked it up and set it to the side. It revealed a hole in the wall—a drafty one too.

It was as tall as Derek, but not as tall as Derek’s dad. Derek’s dad was, like, six feet. He’d have to bend over a lot. 

It was also dusty and dark and had lots of _spiders_ and-

At the sound of Czesław’s squeak, Derek shot him an amused look over his shoulder. “It’s okay. Nothing down here will hurt you.” Still smiling, he pulled Czesław into the darkness. Czesław, he’d follow Derek anywhere, but… “Don’t be a wuss.”

“Big talk from a guy who ran from his sister,” Czesław said, shivering. “Ran with _his tail between his legs_.”

“Hey, she would have literally ripped your throat out.”

“You use that word, but I don’t think you know what it means.” Czesław could see light at the end of the tunnel. It was divided in slices by a heavy iron grate. 

Derek bristled. “What? Literally? Brat, I am fifty times smarter than you.”

“ _Losersayswhat_?” 

“…What?”

“Ha! _Loser_.” Czesław shoved Derek to the side of the tunnel and ran the rest of the way. He could hear Derek shouting behind him, chasing him down, but Czesław was faster.

Naturally, he tripped about a foot from the grate leading outside. He landed hard, scraping his knee. He sat up and sniffled. It hurt. Whatever. It was badass.

Derek slowed to a jog behind him. “I should have left you to die,” he said fondly.

Czesław stubbornly rubbed the tears out of his eyes. “She would have gone after you too, you know.”

“I could have pled for leniency,” Derek said breezily, kneeling down next to Czesław. He used the light filtering from the outside to look at Czesław’s (totally badass) injury. “I would have reminded her of our blood ties.”

“We have blood ties,” Czesław said petulantly.

Derek raised an eyebrow at him and then showed him Derek’s red palm. “You bleeding on me doesn’t count as blood ties.” 

Czesław pouted. Who’d want to be related to Derek anyway? Wasn’t Derek the asshole who left Stiles in the mall and pretended he didn’t know him when a bunch of teenagers came around? Wasn’t he the same dick who short sheeted his beds and threw a stink bomb at him at a sleepover? Wasn’t he the same complete asshole who-

Who-

Czesław tore at his hoodie sadly. “I’m going to miss you.” Derek’s warm hands stilled on his knee. “When you leave, I mean. When you’re too old to want to play with me. Because that happens. I know teenagers. Like, a lot of them.” A whole lot. At his afterschool homework program, he was known as the child you sent volunteer tutors to when you wanted to break their spirits.

“Czesław-” And, see, as much of a jerk Derek was, he tried so hard to pronounce his name correctly. It was still wrong, but at least he didn’t pronounce it _Chestswab_ like Jackson freaking Whittemore. “Czesław, I’m never going to be too old to play with you. Even if we both get sick of hide and seek or pranks or something, we’ll find something else to do. We’ll hang out. Play video games. Or, I don’t know, _chess_.”

Czesław sniffled and looked up at the ceiling before saying, thickly, “I dunno how to play chess.”

“Then learn.” Derek smiled at him gently. “I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care how many teenagers you know. We’re friends.”

Czesław fiddled with the strings on his hoodie. “Best friends?”

Derek hesitated before nodding once. “Best friends,” he said firmly.

Czesław ducked his head, because if Derek said anything else, he was going to cry.

Derek opened up the outside grate and helped Czesław come out of the tunnel. Derek shoved his head, Czesław shoved his shoulder. It was their thing. They didn’t do hugs. They did, however, do piggyback rides, which was so entirely not a mobile hug. Was not. 

Czesław tiredly pressed his forehead to the back of Derek’s neck. “Whee woo, whee woo,” he said exhaustedly.

“Do I even want to know?”

“You’re an ambulance now.” Czesław kicked his sides. “Whee woo, damnit.”

Derek snickered at him and started walking back to the house.

It didn’t take very long to see the house through the trees. Then Czesław saw the cars and his stomach dropped. Cars meant parents, parents meant consequences and consequences meant: _grounded_. Grounded meant no baseball practice, no TV, and, most importantly, no Derek.

Czesław tightened his arms around Derek’s neck. “Let’s run away.”

“Let’s not. I left half a candy bar in my room.”

“You’re going to risk our lives for a candy bar? _Ass_.”

Derek snorted and hitched him up a little higher. His pace did, however, slow quite a bit when he saw his mother’s car pull up, the driver hopping out almost as soon as the car slowed. Laura immediately came outside like the gigantic tattler she was.

Talia Hale took one look at Laura, threw her head back and laughed. It was full voiced and bright, nothing like the shy, muffled giggles Czesław’s mother would smother from existence under her palm.

Enamored with it and subsequently distracted by thoughts of why his parents weren’t so quick to laugh anymore, Czesław missed about half of the following debate. All he knew was Laura was losing.

“But, Mom, they threw water balloons at me!”

“And why, my dear child,” Talia asked, putting her bag down “haven’t you thrown any back?”

Laura straightened to her full height, expression darkening. “Mother, there was paint in them.”

Derek’s mother shrugged. “I’m pretty sure we still have yellow paint from Cora’s art project-”

Laura sputtered. “I’m not going to lower myself to playing with _children_!”

Czesław shrank back and looked at Derek. Derek seemed impervious. 

Talia tipped her head back and looked at her daughter. “And have you considered that, maybe, just maybe, that’s why you’re Derek and Hansel’s favorite target? No one likes to be dismissed, Laura.”

Derek finally noticed Czesław’s agitation and released him long enough to pat his foot. “Don’t take it personally. Laura’s uptight.”

Laura stomped off, irritated. With a sigh, Talia shouldered her bag again and followed her in. Derek and Czesław lingered outside for a little longer, daring to creep inside only after Laura went into the shower to wash off the paint. 

Derek closed the back door behind him softly and knelt down to let Czesław climb off. He then went for a paper towel and water to clean off Czesław’s knee.

Czesław himself limped around the table until he stepped right into Talia Hale. He backed up hastily, almost knocking over a chair. As for Derek, he almost dropped the glass of water at the sight of her, but she pretended not to see it, breezing past the two of them to open a cupboard. Talia walked like a cat.

“Water balloon fights should be consensual, Derek,” his mother said mildly.

Derek’s head dropped. “Sorry. We weren’t thinking.” After a beat, Derek elbowed Czesław. 

“Sorry.”

Derek’s mom turned to face them with a neutral expression, crossing her arms over her chest. Czesław could practically feel Derek’s hackles rise and was not surprised to be shoved forward like a human sacrifice. 

“He needs a band-aid,” Derek tattled and stepped away. Czesław felt vaguely like a shield. Or meat you dangle in front of a predator so it doesn’t eat you instead. 

Talia’s calculated disapproval broke at the sight of Czesław’s bloody knee. After Talia kneeled down and made all the appropriate mom noises at him—Czesław made sure his bottom lip wobbled bravely—she finished up what Derek had clumsily started, cleaning his wound and patching it with a colorful band-aid. 

After she was done, she stood and said brightly, “Are you staying for dinner?” 

“Well-“ Czesław glanced back at Derek, but he was in the other room. He seemed absorbed in a phone call. “I guess.” 

Derek’s mom smiled widely. “Excellent. I’ll set an extra place.” She ruffled a hand through his hair, fondness and affection clear in the gesture. Czesław beamed up at her.

She was scary and she wasn’t his mom, but he liked her a lot.

Derek stepped forward then, flipping his phone closed. “You don’t have to. He can take mine.” He was smiling widely, unrestrained, looking like he won the lottery. “Paige called me. She has tickets to a show and-” Derek went on and on, chattering a mile a minute about how her hair smelled and the look on her face when she worked on her cello, and how great this was because this was the first time—the first time ever!—that she was the one to set up a date.

“And she doesn’t hate me!” Derek concluded, like that was something to cheer about. He grabbed his coat. “I’ll be home later.”

Czesław watched him leave forlornly, wincing slightly at the crack of the front door closing.

“I guess we’ll have seven plates then,” Talia said musingly. Czesław did the math automatically. Derek’s parents and siblings made four. Peter made five. If Czesław was to be the sixth, who was to be the seventh? 

Czesław’s curiosity bloomed and died, leaving only a sense of abandonment and sadness. If Derek was there, maybe he’d care, but… 

Czesław turned back to Derek’s mom. “It’s okay. I have to get back home. Thanks.”

She blinked and looked down at him, saying, “Oh? Okay, kiddo. Be safe.”

Czesław didn’t respond, too miserable to be polite. He went outside. Derek’s bike was already gone. He’d knocked Czesław’s over in his haste to leave. Czesław scowled down at it. Paige was the bane of his existence, and he’d never even met her.

He picked up his bike and climbed on. As he started down the path to the paved main road, he passed someone. Going the opposite way as him was a woman with wavy blond hair and shy smile that showed too many teeth. She watched him go, memorizing his face.

He never noticed.

-

_2013_

Rafael had no frigging idea why the city’s Health and Safety Board decided to nominate him for the Hale House inspection crew, but hale-freaking-lullah. The pay was seven hundred dollars an hour, which was the sort of salary he’d expect if he was, you know, burying dead bodies, but whatever. 

Whittemore was a paranoid shit and apparently he was paying for this out of his own pocket. 

Speaking of which…

Whittemore approached, looking up at the house. He looked distinctly unimpressed, but Rafael couldn’t tell if that was because he was or if that was just his face. And if he was unimpressed with Rafael’s tour skills, well, screw him. Rafael was an engineer, not a tour guide. 

Whittemore cleared his throat. “So, in your experts’ opinions, how does the place look?”

“Surprisingly good, considering how long it’s been abandoned,” Rafael said frankly, rolling out the blueprints on the hood of his car. “That being said, the floor's a little weak in the third story.” Someone had left a window open and nature had taken its course. That there had only been one open window was next to miraculous, but, then again, hadn’t the Hales bit it around Thanksgiving? Beacon Hills had an unforgivingly cold fall.

After a minute, Whittemore looked back at him, shielding his eyes with his hand. “What about the rest of the property?” 

Rafael looked at the map, finding and pointing out some bright red scribbles. “My concern is the shed. That thing is more rust than metal at this point. It’s a hazard. It should be taken down.” 

Whittemore nodded. “What about pests?” 

“Beyond the usual insects, not much. We’ve got a bit of a termite problem, but it looks recent.” The house was freakishly empty of anything like rats and mice or even a reptile or two. The whole area was like a dead zone for animals.

Except for insects, of course. In his experience, insects just didn’t give a shit.

Whittemore nodded again, and then turned to face Rafael fully. “Okay. In your honest opinion, would you let your daughter and fifteen of her friends spend the night here for a school project?”

Rafael paused. He didn’t exactly have a daughter, but he wouldn’t have let her within fifty of the place. Not because it was dangerous or anything in and of itself, but… God. So many people died there. It didn’t seem right. Even the foxes in the area steered clear—and, once, Rafael found one sleeping under the hood of his car. Foxes were not always as clever as their stereotype.

But Rafael knew Mary had debts to pay off and Ricky had child support. An extra hour or two on site would go a long way in helping them out.

“I… would caution her about the third floor and the shed,” Rafael said slowly, because he wasn’t a complete asshole. “But I would also recognize that she’s as safe here as she would be at her own home.”

Whittemore’s eyes narrowed slightly. Oops, softer sell, softer sell.

Rafael made a point of looking at the house dubiously, as if he was changing his mind. “A whole night though? Electricity and plumbing might be a problem…”

“It won’t be.” Whittemore finally smiled. It was brief and tight. “Okay, take down the shed, clean up a bit, kill as many insects as possible, cordon off the areas they can't go. Put your timesheets in my mailbox when you’re done.”

“You got it.” 

Once Whittemore sped off in his fancy-dancy car, Rafael spun once, pumping a fist in the air. Mary came out of nowhere, the creeper. 

“Tell me you got us a couple of hours.” She tugged fretfully at the edges of her vest.

Rafael grinned at her. “I got you a couple of hours.” 

Mary cackled and they fist bumped. Mary worked construction. She was considered their demolitions expert for the project. Since the Hales were known to have a few standing structures other than the house on their property, they had recruited her at last moment. She’d been very annoyed to discover that nearly everything on the property had already been brought down by the weather.

She perked up a bit when Rafael told her she might be needed after all. Rafael had seen that look on his cousin. The pyromaniac one. “The shed and only the shed, Mary.” Mary pouted at him and started unloading her truck. 

Smiling, Rafael turned to go tell Ricky the good news. Before he could go inside, though, the rep from the Health and Safety Board came around the corner of the house at a jog, his thinning hair standing straight up. There were obvious sweat stains in his powder blue suit and he seemed to hone in Rafael’s presence like a heat seeking missile.

Rafael grimaced and sidled up to Mary, leaning a hip against her truck. “Do you need any help?”

From deep inside her truck, she mumbled, “I’m a goddamn professional, Rafa. I don’t need you to hold my hand.”

“Yeah, but you might need to hold mine.”

She looked up, startled at that, but when she saw the bane of his existence through the window, she just laughed, completely blowing his cover.

The rep huffed and puffed, looking like a sweaty cherry. “Mr. Martinez! I was watching- the window- Whittemore.” He stopped, wheezing pathetically.

Rafael grimaced and walked to meet him. “Breathe before you die, man.” 

Herbert Howard Heffner was his name and being a stick in the mud was his game. “I really wish you hadn’t given Whittemore the go-ahead,” he said plaintively.

“Why not? Everything’s fine.”

“We don’t know that,” Herbie burst out. “Maybe we checked out the grounds, maybe we checked out the house, but has anyone checked out the basement yet?”

“I thought that was your job.” 

Herbie was supposed to be looking at the plumbing. His very ancient license in the matter was supposed to guide him with that. That is, if he hadn’t forged it somehow. Herbert didn’t seem like the kind of person to have an expertise in anything.

“It was!” Herbie said defensively. “But there’s a set of iron doors blocking me from it. They’re chained up and everything”

Rafael rolled his eyes, considering, briefly, lining up all the many chores Whittemore had thrown at them before he left. All the many chores that had to be done before they could humor Herbert and his obsession with the basement.

But then Rafael remembered that one of those chores was cleaning, and just… no. just no, man. He was an engineer, not a maid service.

An idea popped into his head. Well, it’s not like he could just whip out a feather duster if he was busy in the basement, right? Yeah! Someone else would have to do it because, you know what? Rafael was busy. Busy with his new best friend, Herbie.

Walking to his car, Rafael texted the list of things to do to the rest of the crew. Then he pulled out a pair of heavy duty cutters and snapped them together dramatically, flashing his teeth at the flushed city official.

“Alrighty, Herbie. Let’s open up your basement.”

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Allison was standing on the stairs again. She wrapped her arms around her torso and carefully made her way down. There wasn’t a single thought in her head why she should not be there or why she should not go.

After all, the doors were open. 

_Allison._

She became aware first of light breathing not her own, then chains dragging on the floor. There was a man there too, a man in a powder blue suit. He was on his stomach, crawling up the bottom three stairs. There was a long streak of red behind him, but upward, he continued. He continued until he couldn’t, gassing out at the fifth step, bumping back down.

Allison hovered at the seventh step, watching him as he flipped over to his back, panting, sweaty, and bloody. He was bleeding from a wound in his stomach—four parallel strikes.

He sobbed as he hit the bottom step, defeated and terrified. His breath hitched in a cry when something suddenly tangled around his ankle.

She watched, numb, as the man was suddenly jerked into the darkness.

_Allison._

Beckoned, she lifted her head and started down the stairs again, stopping only when there were no steps left. In front of her, there was a rumbling, rolling breath, so strong that it parted the hair around her face. 

Then, out of that darkness, came a hand. A bloodied hand with delicate fingers, wide life lines.

_Allison._

Her name curled sweetly in the air. Her breath caught up in her throat, Allison reached out, her palm hovering over that long, clawed fingers. 

And then-

“Allison?”

Allison jerked awake. A napkin was glued to her cheek. She flapped at it awkwardly until it fell, defeated.

Then, finally, she looked up—right into Scott McCall’s warm brown eyes. As unsettling as her dream was, the memory of it dissipated like fog under a hot sun.

Scott did a little wave. He looked more embarrassed than she did, immediately shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “I don’t know how comfortable you are with sleeping in public. But I wanted to warn you that you were. Sleeping. In public.”

“Uh. Thanks, actually. Did not mean to fall asleep.” Allison reflexively reached for her cup of coffee, but it was irritatingly, obnoxiously empty. She made a small noise of disappointment and then, at his look, shook it slightly. When Scott just looked at her, wide eyed, she said apologetically, “Stiles sort of got me addicted.”

“Do you want me to get you more?”

“I-” Allison was going to say no, he didn’t have to, but he had pulled away from her so quickly, he backed into another chair. He seemed almost desperately glad for the excuse to do something so, suppressing a smile, she let it go. 

“Thanks,” she said when he came back. Scott almost tripped, but managed to get her drink to the table without spilling it. Then he took a noticeable step back, tucking his own drink to his chest. He didn’t assume she’d let him sit. 

Allison’s grin widened. Without prompting, she moved her paperwork to one side of the table and kicked out the chair across from her. “Sit,” she told him and he did. He was blushing and trying to keep her gaze. 

Allison propped her chin on her hands and just looked at him. She knew way more about Scott McCall than she was comfortable admitting to, mostly because admitting to it would make her sound, well, stalkerish. 

Fact one: Scott volunteered at the hospital on Fridays and worked at the animal clinic every other day. He was clearly a person who cared about people and animals.

Fact two: Scott wasn’t one of Jackson’s friends, but he was on the lacrosse team. His position on the first line seemed to vary week by week, which had to be stressful. Nevertheless, he always seemed cheerful, even when benched.

Fact three: His eyes were very warm and he dimpled when he smiled. Allison didn’t have any extrapolations on his character based on these things. Nope, she just liked them. A lot. 

Fact four: Scott McCall was possibly the most adorable eighteen year old she had ever met.

Um. Well. Maybe the fourth one was more of an opinion than anything else. Whatever. She stood by it.

Scott was looking at her paperwork upside down, frowning. “That’s… interesting.”

“Yeah.“ She looked down reflexively, and then grimaced. Of all things he had to see, it was Matt’s gory death scene set up. “It’s, um, for the documentary.” Allison suppressed the urge to hide it from view. “Do you have any creative interests?”

After a moment, he dragged his attention from the notes and nodded once. “Uh, yeah. Piano.”

“Really?”

“Yeah” His smile was a slow thing, self-conscious but amused at the same time. “Is it so hard to believe?”

“You just strike me as a guy who’d be better with a guitar. Or drums.”

Scott laughed. “I wanted to! Trust me, I did. I thought it would make me look cool.” He made a face at that, then shrugged and smiled. “But, when I was young, my mom got this keyboard from a garage sale. Little thing, plugged into the wall and everything. She said, since she bought it, one of us had to learn.” He ducked his head slightly, his smile turning shy. “And she never had time, so it was up to me.”

“Were you good?”

“Oh, so good.” Scott took a big gulp of his coffee, grimacing. “But, um. High school was on the horizon and… middle school was hard enough.” He shrugged. “I stopped because I wanted to fit in.”

Allison stared at the table. “That’s sad.”

“Yeah.”

“Happens to me too,” Allison muttered, shuffling her notes. “All the time.“

“Get out.”

Allison looked up earnestly. “No, really! I’d get ostracized on, like, the first day. And it would always be over something stupid, like… Like, I’d always walk in wearing the latest fashions of my last school, and wouldn’t you know they were already out of fashion. Or I sat in the wrong person’s chair. Or I talked too long to so and so’s boyfriend or girlfriend.” She took a huge gulp of her drink and then said, “And then I would try to make friends, but… you are always what you used to be, you know? I move to a city school from a country school and suddenly I was a stupid hillbilly. I move from the city to the suburbs and suddenly I’m a Valley girl or a city chick—too flighty for them.”

Allison took in a deep breath, twirling her pencil. “I can never win,” she muttered to herself. Then, after a beat—after rewinding all of that and realizing how she _sounded_ , God—she looked up at Scott. 

Scott gazed at her steadily. “They don’t know what they’re missing.”

Pleased by that, Allison smiled. She let her hair fall over her face a little and looked at him. They gazed at each other for a long time.

Then someone behind the counter dropped a blender with a curse, making them both jump slightly. Allison smothered a laugh into her hand and looked out the window. Her heart was racing like mad, but, at the same time, this felt so good, so right.

Scott cleared his throat. “So, your documentary. It’s like one of those true crime shows, right?”

Allison looked back at him with a nod. “That’s the idea.”

“Are you doing interviews, then?” When she looked at him, confused, he clarified quickly, saying, “Because I was just watching one of those last night and it seems that, in addition to the reenactment scenes, they also have a ton of segments where they interview people who had first-hand experiences with the crime or the suspect or the victim or something like that.”

“I did ask the sheriff if he would mind talking to me about what happened, but that was more for-” Allison bit off what she was going to say. _Sense-making._ Because the murders just didn’t make sense. 

Animal bites, but no animal indentified. Wolf hairs, but not of known species. A back door opened by human force. A murderer lying in wait. Four survivors who’d confronted their attacker face to face, and yet not a single person was identified as a suspect.

“But I guess I could film that too,” Allison muttered to herself, thinking. “If he’d agree.”

“He would,” Scott said confidently. “Stiles’ dad is cool.”

Allison perked up slightly at that. “Okay, but… who else would I interview?”

Scott frowned, thinking. He rested his chin over the top of his drink. Then, his eyes flicking up to her, he said, “What about people who worked with Mr. and Mrs. Hale?”

-

Lydia slipped in front her laptop, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Facebook was already open. Overrun with memes as it was, it was still an effective communication tool. Lydia’s fingers froze over the keys. Hm. It had been a while since she signed in, sure, but had she really lost so many friends? 

Lydia let herself be bothered by it for precisely fifteen seconds before forcibly shaking it off.

Humming quietly to herself in the privacy of her room, she opened the “create an event” page and started entering in details. Name, Allison Argent’s Documentary. Where, the Hale House. Date? Lydia made a face and entered the first day of winter break.

All the little things taken care of, she moved onto the details.

_You have been cordially invited to take part in Allison Argent’s documentary. This project is being shot for the annual Beacon Hills Historical Society Documentary contest. The theme is Defining Moments and Allison has decided to focus on Beacon Hill’s most defining unsolved murder mystery—the Hale House Massacre._

_Allison has secured temporary rights to go on the site and film, but she needs your help. Her permit only allows her one night and one night only, so we need as much help as possible to get everything done._

_Please consider volunteering for her crew. Spaces are open for positions ranging from actors to camera personnel._

_Benefits:_  
\- The experience will be invaluable for anyone who wants to go into the film industry. Also, your name will go on the screen credits, if that’s something you’re interested in.  
\- This could be good volunteer experience as well.  
\- You will be fed. I’m buying. That means lunch, dinner, and breakfast.  
\- This project has stirred up the hornet’s nest in City Hall. It may be that this is the last time anyone is let into the house before the city brings it down. 

_Costs:_  
\- If you commit, you will be expected to sleep there. There’s not enough beds or couches to go around, if there are any left at all.  
\- As I said before, Allison has a deadline, so you will be expected to work. 

_I reserve the right to withdraw your invitation._

_Ignore the date here. The real date is to be announced. And, yes, when I say the old Hale House, I mean it. Bring your sleeping bags and a change of clothing._

Lydia stopped typing, leaning back to read what she wrote. After a moment, she smirked. Perfection.

Fortunately, she already combed through a list of people she thought would be of more help to Allison—the people with acting experience, the people with filming experience, the people who would actually work. All she had to do was go through them, input their names and, presto.

She pressed the create button. Almost immediately, the responses came.

_Allison Argent is going. Matt Daehler is going. Jackson Whittemore is going. Scott McCall is going._

Smiling widely at her success, she closed her computer. She was going to have Allison’s crew ready in no time.

-

Tap, tap, tap. Allison rapped her pencil against the clip of her board. She was seated in the sheriff’s office, nearly swallowed by his plush visitor chair.

She straightened up when the sheriff walked back in, closing the door behind him.

“So. A documentary, huh?” He smiled at her, crossing the room to his chair.

“Yes, sir.”

The sheriff of Beacon Hills was not at all what Allison expected. Even now, she couldn’t say what that was for sure. Maybe she expected him to look more like Stiles? Or maybe she expected him to have a more no-nonsense face. Maybe she expected him not to break out in a kind smile and offer her a seat and some coffee before making sure they could have an uninterrupted conversation. He wanted to give her his full attention, he said, and he couldn’t do that if his deputies were running around like chickens with their heads cut off.

She laughed, knowing it wasn’t true. The deputies she met were very professional and focused, hardly needing the supervision.

Allison ducked her head slightly. “I was wondering if you could give me some more information.” Frowning, Stilinski opened his mouth, as if he was going to refuse. “Not anything on the crime, of course. I’m going off of what’s available publicly and I wouldn’t ask you for, um, classified information.” 

He looked amused at that—and that was where she saw his resemblance to Stiles all of a sudden. “Then what kind of information do you want?”

“Just… general information on the Hales. Who they were, what kind of people they were. And I was wondering if you’d let me film it. Your answers, I mean.”

“Look.” Stilinski rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t have the time right now to be giving a full blown interview, especially not one that is going on film. Give me a rundown of the kind of questions you want to ask and then, once you’re done filming at the house, you can come at me with a camera and we can do it officially.”

“So right now is off the record.”

He smiled at her. “Yes.”

Allison beamed. This was exciting. She took out a notepad.

Stilinski started telling her about the murders. He was a deputy at the time. The sheriff back then was Sheriff Alan Knowlin, who had since retired to SoCal. Sheriff Stilinski had been on the force for a good ten years at that point and had been one of the first at the crime scene.

Stilinski shook his head at the memory of it, face crunched briefly in anguish. She could see why he wanted to wait and plan his answers before going on film. She gave him a minute, feeling awkward and like she should move to the next question—or, better yet, offer to leave.

“The Hales were just… good people. Really good. Philanthropists to the core. College kids, homeless people, wild animals—you name it, they set up a fund for it. Even their kids liked helping people, and most of them were teenagers. Do you know how hard it is to convince teenagers of the benefits of charity work?”

“I can imagine,” Allison said with a soft laugh. The sheriff smiled at her. A moment later, a shadow passed over his face. He stood up, facing his window. 

“I know this is supposed to be for the documentary contest, but are you sure it’s appropriate?”

Allison’s pencil froze. “I- what?”

Stilinski turned around quickly, expression earnest. “I’m sorry. And- and I know that’s not fair to you, after you’ve done so much work already, but these… these were good people and what happened to them was awful.” He sighed and walked back to his desk, sitting on the edge of it. “I just want you to promise me that you will deal with this topic with the utmost amount of seriousness and respect.”

“Of course.”

“Good,” Stilinski said, smiling tiredly. He tipped his chin up at her notes. “Then what else do you want to ask me?”

Allison asked him about the family. The man was pretty candid. He knew a lot about Talia and her husband, and both sets of their parents. The Hales were pretty well entrenched in the area—old money, new ideas, few enemies. He didn’t have much to say about the youngest of them, citing privacy issues.

“But even if that wasn’t an issue, I still don’t know much,” Stilinski admitted. “My son was more familiar with them than I was.” He looked up to the ceiling, as if trying to recall something. “They had one daughter your age. She called in sick to school that day. She would have been in elementary school still. The oldest daughter, let’s see. I think she graduated already? She was working in town. One son was in high school. He used to help coach the little kids’ baseball team. In fact…” 

Stilinski got up again and peered at the massive array of photos on his wall. After a moment of scanning, he made a soft noise and pulled one of the frames down from the wall, handing it to Allison. The first thing she was aware of were the uniforms. Lots and lots of uniforms.

The sheriff poked at one spot on the picture. “There’s Stiles.” 

And, yes, it was most definitely Stiles. He was rocking a buzz cut with a mouth full of metal, but his nose was unmistakable. He had one foot up like he was going to run right out of the picture. Allison grinned at the sight of it. It was nice to know he hadn’t changed. Much.

The sheriff’s finger shifted to the left. “And there’s the son.” There was an older boy right next to Stiles. He wasn’t wearing their uniform but nevertheless bore a t-shirt with the team name. He had an arm around Stiles’ shoulder. It was visibly tense, like his smile. 

She looked at him a little closer, curious. The boy looked like he was just moving out of his awkward gangly teenager phase. He had dark hair and light eyes and strangely shaped ears. He looked nothing like a person who knew what was going to happen to him in a few months.

Allison pulled back, saddened. The sheriff took the photo back, looking at it. He tapped the inside of his palm with the frame, swallowing.

“Stiles was, um.” Stilinski looked back up at her with a pained smile. “He didn’t have a lot of friends back then. Having older friends helped. They got that he wasn’t trying to be annoying or spastic or anything. They could help him calm down, redirect his energy.” He let out a shaky sigh and put the photo back up. He fussed over it a bit before walking back to his chair and sitting down.

“So they were close?”

The sheriff stared at his hands. “He used to spend more time at the Hales’ house than at our own. In fact. He was supposed to spend the night… that night.” Stilinski’s eyes flicked back up to Allison’s meaningfully.

Allison swallowed, focusing on her notes for a moment. What happened to the Hales was horrible, but the idea of someone she knew, someone she liked, someone she was good friends with, almost… almost being there. Almost being in the crossfire of that…

It was horrifying.

-

_2005_

The blond lady was hanging out at the Hale house a lot nowadays, and Czesław didn’t like it. Not one bit at all. 

There was always a ton of people going in and out of the house, but few stayed the night. Even so, Czesław was used to the Hales and their houseguests. His favorite was Mrs. Hampton. She made the best gingerbread cookies. She was pushing ninety and her children were dead, but that didn’t stop her from doting on the rest of them like they all had personally come from her womb. 

(That was the first time Czesław ever saw someone treating Talia like a child, and the only time Czesław saw her blush, bow her head, and accept it. Mrs. Hampton was like everyone’s adopted grandmother. She was great.) 

About six months ago, the Hales helped Mrs. Hampton reconnect with a grand-niece. Within days, the lady took her into her own home and out of the Hales’. 

And now there was this lady.

She was much, much younger than Mrs. Hampton. She was in her twenties and pretty—not as pretty as Lydia Martin, but pretty enough. She had a way of looking at you and pulling you in, like a magnet. She was very charming and very attentive.

And she’d just crouched right in front of him. “Are you little Derek Hale?” she asked teasingly. She took a deep breath and tugged on Czesław’s hair. “You smell _just_ like him.”

God, he hoped not. Derek’s BO was awful. 

She laughed softly at his expression. Feeling as made fun of, Czesław pulled way. Of course he wasn’t a Hale. He looked nothing like them. The Hales were all tall and dark, with pretty, pretty eyes. 

Czesław narrowed his eyes. “You’re weird.”

Her smile widened. “Of course I’m weird. Everyone’s weird.” She smelled good, like flowers and pine needles. There was something about her that just sang _look how likable I am_ , and, yet…

Czesław stood his ground. “There’s a good weird and a bad weird,” he said. “Good weird is like Deputy Tara’s finger tricks for math. You’re a bad weird.” And then, finally understanding why she seemed so wrong to him, he blurted out, “Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes.”

Her pleasant expression dropped. She just looked at him then, eyes steady. Her gaze made his hackles rise. There was something very cold there, very hollow, like someone had taken an ice cream scooper to her soul.

And then Czesław felt a hand fall to his shoulder.

“That’s very rude,” Talia said seriously. He looked up at her. “Please go sit in the living room and think about why that was rude.” 

Czesław made a face at that. It was hardly the first time she called him out on his behavior, and he knew from experience that ‘thinking about it’ would be followed by explaining to both her—and his parents—why what he did was rude. That didn’t necessarily bother him.

The fact that she did it in front of her weird-bad houseguest? _That_ was the problem. That was what he didn’t like. And that was why he stomped out of the room, scowling when he heard Talia apologize and tell the lady that he was a friend of Derek’s and a bit of a problem child.

Czesław flung himself on a couch, pouting. And, to think, the only reason he came over was so he could hang out with Derek! And Derek wasn’t even there. He was out on a date. _With Paige._ Ugh.

Czesław slumped deeper into the cushions. Rainy weather, weird houseguests, no Derek, and a lecture looming on the horizon. There was no way this day could get any worse.

That was when Cora popped up from behind the couch with an evil cackle, springing on him like a long legged frog. She took him down to the floor and started chewing on his head. 

This was not new for them. Usually, they’d take the time to fight and roll around, but Czesław wasn’t in the mood. He just sighed, went limp, and let her bite his ear.

She pulled back after a moment, eyes narrow. “Hansel, what’s got your frown upside down?” 

Czesław sighed and hunched a shoulder at her, too downtrodden to explain, yet again, that he was Polish, not German. Derek was the only Hale who bothered to try and call him by his actual name. Even Peter’s fiancée called him Hansel, and they had only met twice.

When he didn’t respond, Cora flopped on him, her stomach draped over his side. They sat there quietly for a few minutes, the adults’ soft conversation muffled by the wall.

Cora broke first. “I can give you a black eye,” she said, like she was offering a gift.

“I hate you. You’re a mean person.”

“And you’re hideous and loud.”

Czesław didn’t say anything to that. He could sense she was trying to make herself heavier, more of a burden, but it was impossible. She leaned up slightly, flicking her hair over her shoulder. Then Czesław blurted out, “It’s Derek’s stupid girlfriend.”

“She’s not stupid. She’s on the honor roll.” Cora got up to her knees and shoved him to his stomach so she could lie on his back instead.

Czesław found himself with his face smashed up against the rug, but still, strangely, was willing to talk. “That’s not what I mean. It’s just-“ He sucked in a breath of pure frustration before saying, “If Derek was single, I’d have him, like, always. He’d never be too busy for me.”

Cora sighed heavily, sounding ten years older than she was. “You need to make friends your own age.”

He tried to look at her, but it was hard. “Are you offering?”

“What? _No_.” Cora swatted the back of his head, punishing him for even considering that. “If I hung out with you in public, everyone would think we’re dating. That’s gross.”

After a beat, Czesław made a face too. He didn’t get dating, and he sure as hell didn’t want to do that with Cora. “Yeah, then if they thought I was dating you, they’d ask stupid questions and demand why I wasn’t hanging out with you more. Then they’d make us hold hands and hug and even _kiss_.” They both made grossed out expressions at that. 

Then Czesław had a thought—a brilliant one. “What if I dated _Derek_? That would solve everything!” Derek would have to spent time with him then. Czesław wouldn’t mind kissing him. _Derek_ wouldn’t bite, unlike Cora.

Cora fake-vomited and shoved at his head before bouncing to her feet. “Okay, come back when you’re not in fantasy realm anymore, Hansel.”

“Wait!” Czesław rolled over to his back, grasping at her ankles. “I’m serious. _Cora_!”

Cora ignored his whining and walked away. He scrambled to his feet as she disappeared through the doorway, and, just as he charged after her, he stopped short. He could hear Cora on the stairs, making her way up to her second floor room.

Czesław didn’t follow because, in front of him, handling a framed photograph with a proprietary hand, was the lady from before. Talia was nowhere in sight. 

Czesław froze, stomach turning to ice.

“So this is Derek,” the lady said quietly. “The Hale I always miss.” Czesław got on his toes, peeking at the photo. It was one of Derek’s better ones, taken for his basketball team photo. When he first saw it, Czesław joked about Derek showing off his Blue Steel until, ears burning, Derek pinned his head to the floor until he apologized. 

The woman smiled absently, tracing Derek’s jawline with a finger. “I can see why you’re so attached. He’ll be quite the looker when he grows up.” She looked at the picture like she was seeing something she’d been looking for—a new solution to an old problem.

Czesław suddenly felt very afraid.

-

_2013_

Allison’s next set of interviews were less harrowing than the one with Stiles’ dad. She finished them over the course of the next three days, running through a list of prominent coworkers, old neighbors, and old friends. She found that most people didn’t want to talk over the phone, so she resigned herself to meeting people face to face and asking them then. It was hard to say no when there was someone right in front of you, after all.

Kali was the first name on her list, so to her house, Allison went. Kali wasn’t in town, but her girlfriend was. While Julia tried to be helpful, she hadn’t been in Beacon Hills when everything went down. She did, however, direct Allison to Kali’s ex boyfriend, Ennis. Ennis used to work with Mr. Hale.

Allison approached Ennis at his work. He listened to her spiel with an intimidating blank face, nodding every once in a while. To her surprise, he readily agreed to go in front of the camera. He changed from a grease stained t-shirt to a nice button down and some slacks, but he still didn’t look quite right, sitting there. He seemed too big for the room and knew it. He also had an awfully difficult time reigning in his tendency to swear, but, hey. A for effort.

Ennis and Mr. Hale were very close. They used to run a mechanic shop together. Now, Ennis ran a mechanic shop chain and was very successful. But he seemed like he would have preferred splitting the glory with his old friend, if only that friend was still alive.

Ennis grinned fondly, eyes hazy in recollection. “And it was hilarious, you don’t even know. This GQ mother fucker getting oil and grease on himself and looking like he’d rolled around in the junk yard.” Ennis’ sharp smile faded. “But that was just him, you know? He might have been rich and all that, but he liked doing things, fixing things. He liked making order out of chaos.” Ennis’ smile widened again. “I let that fuc- person. I let that guy into my apartment once and I came back to find my socking fu- freaking, Freaking _color coded_. I still don’t know if he was messing with me or what.” 

Ennis had no idea who would want to hurt the guy.

Deucalion, one of Talia’s business partners, also agreed to go in front of the camera. He met her in between meetings, calm and comfortable in slacks and a cardigan. He had an accent she couldn’t quite place, but that plus his charming way with words did a lot to soften the harsh lines of his face. 

He was the president of a nonprofit organization that fought to give people on the streets a leg up and addicts a second chance to change. It was sometimes hard on the psyche, Deucalion told her, especially when people were weak or didn’t want to change. In the end, it was the most rewarding thing he’d ever done with his life.

Deucalion frowned. “The difference between me and Talia was that I had vision. But vision in a vacuum is a lifeless, empty thing. Talia had ambition. She had talent. She had focus. She had _drive_. If she said she was going to do something, then it was going to be done. No questions about it. You didn’t say no to Talia.”

Deucalion’s pale eyes widened slightly when she asked him if Talia had enemies. “I… don’t think so? She was a shrewd woman. Sharp. Clever. I suppose some people don’t like that. Oh, and she was intimidating as all hell if you weren’t on her side. Oh, am I allowed to say hell?” She told him it was alright. “Enemies. I don’t like to think she had, but she was a business woman. And business can be brutal.”

Deaton had more to say on that than Deucalion. He wouldn’t go on camera, saying it might hurt his business, but he told Allison that Talia could have very well had an army of enemies. “She single handedly got a mayor ousted, businesses blacklisted, and teachers on tenure fired,” Deaton said calmly, smoothing a hand over a quivering cat’s back. “She was a remarkable person. She had a very clear moral code. But you didn’t say no to Talia.”

Deaton, though an old family friend of the Hales, didn’t know much about the children or even where the survivors went.

“So you think maybe the uncle took the kids and fled?”

“Peter-” Deaton hesitated, looking up at the ceiling. After moment of thought, he looked back at her. “Peter is not what I call a responsible adult. Or even a kind one. He was always babied and he was smart enough to know when to milk it for all that it was worth. I would not be surprised if Peter took off on his own, leaving the others to their own devices. And that was probably for the best too.”

“But the others stuck around for a while,” Allison said slowly. The youngest child stayed in the hospital for years. Even the other two didn’t leave for a few days.

“And why would they want to, knowing their sister was stuck there and in a coma?”

“But they did leave, eventually. And they left her behind.” When Deaton nodded, just watching her steadily, Allison frowned. “Something forced their hand?”

Deaton didn’t agree or disagree. “I don’t want to know what could have scared them enough to make them leave their sister behind.” He scratched the cat beneath its ears. It purred loudly, fear gone. “All the Hales were very tight. Close knit. Extremely protective.”

So, whatever made the kids flee, it had to be bad. Really bad.

By the end of the next Thursday afternoon, Allison had so many doors closed in her face that she was almost startled when a slammed shut door whipped back open again.

She’d told the pale, black haired woman her usual spiel about the documentary before adding, “I’d like to ask you about the statement you made with the police—you know, the one where you said your boyfriend knew who the killer was?”

After whipping the door back open, Paige glared at her with glittering brown eyes. “How dare you.” Her lingering anguish was obvious, as was her rage.

Everyone Allison interviewed up until Paige was an older adult who was also removed somehow –business partners instead of best friends, acquaintances instead of relatives, neighbors instead of lovers. They talked misty eyed of tragedies, but it wasn’t something that lingered with them. It wasn’t something that kept them up at night.

But Paige’s loss was still an open wound. She was young too, not much older than Allison. Allison couldn’t imagine what it would be like in her shoes.

Allison flushed with guilt and not a little humiliation. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just-“ She pressed her clipboard to her chest. “I’m sorry.” She made as if to leave.

But then Paige had a complicated look on her face. “Wait,” she said reluctantly. Allison turned back to her so fast, her video camera bag swung around and hit her hip. Allison tried not to wince, worrying more about the equipment than the undoubtedly lovely bruise that was going to form.

Paige took a step back, gesturing vaguely behind her. “You can come in. Just know I reserve the right to kick you out at any time.”

Then she walked away, not giving Allison a second glance. Not a terribly friendly person, this Paige.

Paige lived with her mother when she wasn’t at school. College had a much longer winter break than the high school. The fact that she managed to catch Paige at all was a miracle—if Allison had chickened out and waited until after the holidays to film her interviews, Paige would have been long gone.

Paige predictably refused to go on camera.

They sat in the living room. Allison looked at her notes, anxious. She could feel Paige’s cool gaze on her. After a moment, she cleared her throat and decided to dive right in.

“You said that the Hale boy-“

“Derek,” Paige corrected, eyes narrowing. 

Allison nodded apologetically. She was used to the newspapers’ side of the story, and they never used any of the minors’ actual names. “You said Derek told you that their houseguest at the time was responsible for the murders.”

“So he said. How did you even come across that information anyway? It wasn’t in any of the papers.”

Allison ignored that. “So you went to the cops with that information.”

Paige smiled tightly. “And they called me a crack pot. Then Derek had to go and run away before he could back me up.” Something angry and guilty flitted over her face. “I was just trying to help him.”

“Tell me about that person. The one living with them.”

“She was sketchy as shit,” Paige said plainly, running a hand over her hair. She made a face. “Look, Derek’s parents were good people, but they were also sort of… pretentious about it? I mean, they didn’t see the difference between letting someone in one of their housing facilities three miles across town and letting someone in their home.”

“They let people live in their house?”

“Yeah, for a bit. Just to get them on their feet or whatever. The people rarely stuck around for more than a week or two. They also tended to be old. Like, senior citizen old.”

“But this other person wasn’t,” Allison guessed. 

Paige shook her head. Old anger made her eyes flash. “She wasn’t. I mean, she was older than me, but she was still pretty young, right?” She ducked her head slightly before saying, with some heat, “And pretty and manipulative and clever and downright vicious. She had Derek wrapped around her pinky finger.”

“I thought you two were dating.”

“Not at the time, but we were still trying to be friends.” Paige crossed her arms tightly over her chest before blurting out, “For all I know, she was the one behind us breaking up in the first place.”

“So you think this mystery lady, who was young ,pretty and vicious, who had your old boyfriend jumping when she said jump- this is the person who killed everyone in the house?”

“You don’t believe me either,” Paige accused, expression darkening.

“That’s not what I meant,” Allison said gently. “It’s just…” She trailed off. Then, after a beat, she said, “I can see why they dismissed you.”

Paige snorted. “Because I sound like a jealous ex-girlfriend?” Before Allison could try and lessen the blow of that somehow, Paige raised her hand and shook her head. “No, don’t. I’ve heard worse.”

There was an awkward pause.

“So Derek was really into this person, huh?” Allison asked.

Paige rolled her eyes. “ _Derek_ has a hero complex. He wanted to save her.” Paige looked up at the ceiling, clearly trying to recall something from the past. “Apparently, she was, uh, running from an abusive family situation? Her dad used to lock her up in the basement to perform science experiments.” Allison’s eyebrows shot up. “I know, right? I didn’t believe him. Or, maybe, I believed he believed, but I didn’t believe _her_ , if that makes any sense.” Allison nodded. “He was always talking about going back to where she came from and, you know, and getting… well, not revenge. But some sort of justice? He got his parents to look into her some more, but then they kicked her out. They even got her a police escort to leave the whole damn town. Derek was furious. He spent a long time over here, ranting and raving about how his parents were such hypocrites and liars…”

“Which, of course, made Derek look like a pretty good suspect when his family died,” Allison said directly.

After a moment, Paige nodded. “It was awful. That’s why I came forward with what I knew. Because Derek could be a dick. Derek was a dick in the way a lot of teenage boys are.” Tears started to form in her eyes. “But he loved his family. He loved them so much. He was in tears when he-“ Paige sucked in a deep breath, trying to get her emotions in order. “He might have ditched me to the cops when he ran, but there was a reason why I went to them in the first place. When he told me he knew who hurt his family, I believed him. I still do.”

But Paige didn’t have a name for the woman. And the lady had been out of town for about a week by the time the Hales died.

Allison wondered if Stiles knew. She would have to ask.

After her interview with Paige concluded, Allison went back home, collapsing into a chair. She checked her messages. There were a ton of texts in her inbox. Most were from Matt, asking where she was and if she’d like to talk about her documentary over food or something. 

Then there was a text from her dad. _We found some promising leads here. We’ll be gone for another week or so. You okay all by yourself?_

Smiling softly, she responded telling Matt no thanks, she was busy. To her dad, she just said she was fine and good luck. 

She stood at the kitchen table, spreading out her notes, research, and paperwork. She’d done this so many times, she barely had to read the headlines anymore. Then she just sat, looking over everything.

There were three running theories for how the Hales died. One theory stated that wild animals had gotten in and attacked everyone. It fit some of the evidence—the wolf hairs, the size and shape of the bites—but not all. It didn’t explain how the animals had gotten in, it didn’t explain the odd immune reaction the dead had to the bite, and it didn’t explain why the bite itself was so… singular. If a rabid wolf suddenly found itself running through the Hale’s house in the middle of the day, it surely would have bit the people it found there more than once.

Allison didn’t like that theory and neither did the cops.

The second theory was that there was a random burglar and a trained attack dog—maybe some kind of wolf hybrid. That would explain why experts couldn’t identify either the bite or the hair sample. The back door had shown clear signs of being picked into—that, the human would have done. The human would have left those hand shaped bruises on the body by holding the person down until the animal could bite them. But… why? Why attack the Hales? Why have the animal bite them? Why did some of the Hales have that immune reaction in the first place? Why did they not steal anything?

Allison could see the merits of this theory, even if it left more questions than it answered.

The third was Paige’s theory—the mysterious, nameless drifter who had her claws in Derek Hale. First of all, Derek had identified her as the attacker, which was huge. Also, the woman would have had motive. She was probably disturbed. Plus, she knew where the house was. She knew their schedules. But why was there wolf hair? What was with that bite? Did she bring an attack wolf with her?

It was all just so confusing.

Frustrated and exhausted, Allison found herself doodling the Hale family tree. Many of them were present that day because of the looming Thanksgiving holiday. Anticipating a family gathering, they received assault and death instead. It was sickening.

Way up top were Talia’s inlaws and her one parent. Under her mother was Talia herself, her husband, oldest brother, youngest brother and his fiancée. Talia’s oldest brother had brought his only son and not his estranged wife. Then, under Talia, were her three children, which brought the count up to twelve people. Of the twelve, only four of them would survive.

Frowning at her completed family tree, Allison sighed. Then she started adding details in a little cloud all around them. Gender, age, occupation, hometown. In what order they died.

Allison blinked sleepily, sliding her pencil back to the ages again. Huh. Peter was younger than his oldest nephew. That had to be weird. Pulling back, Allison stared at it, then, off to the side, rewrote their names from oldest to youngest—from Grandma Hale to Cora. 

She crossed out every person who died, leaving a solid line of x’s. Then she leaned back and looked at it again.

Only the youngest survived.

-

Stiles jumped out of his jeep straightening his jacket. Leaves crunched under his feet and an abandoned house loomed in the distance. He stared at it for a while, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Then, with a lurch, he started walking towards it, step by step.

He was not unfamiliar with the Hale property. When insomnia kicked in and his brain yanked him in ten different directions at once, he liked to come here and walk. Just walk. Sometimes with a mitt and a baseball in hand, sometimes with nothing but his music player, he’d walk and remember all the memories associated with this place—both the good and the bad.

But, in all the years after those murders, he’d never summoned up enough courage to actually go inside the house.

The door opened without any resistance. The air smelled strongly of insecticide and the floor looked like it was half-heartedly swept up. He closed the door behind him and started wandering around the first floor, poking at what he could and looking longingly at things he couldn’t.

He remembered Talia’s husband in the kitchen flipping pancakes. He remembered Talia behind that huge, menacing desk in her office, her glasses perched on the end of her nose. He remembered running downstairs and playing monopoly in the living room while Cora stuck gum in his hair. He remembered standing outside, shivering in the cold as Derek continuously and patiently taught him how to swing, how to catch, how to sprint.

He remembered the first time he came onto the property. He’d known Derek for about three hours and the teenager had already invited him over to practice baseball. They had barely walked through the front door before Derek started running, shouting for Cora. Stiles had followed him just in time to see Peter leaning against the wall, smirking. He’d locked Cora in a closet and all Stiles could hear was hysterical crying. 

Derek had yelled and jumped his uncle. But Peter just sidestepped him, bringing him to the ground and twisting his arm behind his back. Then, viciously angry at the stranger’s treatment of his new friend, Stiles ran up and head butted Peter so hard, Stiles blacked out. 

Stiles came to, propped up in Laura’s lap, as Peter whined that it was a joke and everyone had taken it too far. Talia did not look impressed. Cora herself was plastered all over Derek, her face flushed an angry red, snotty and incandescent. Her hands were clenched in fists over back of Derek’s shirt—and if Stiles remembered anything about Cora, it was her fists. She liked them. She liked to use them.

Also, he remembered no one liked Peter. It was a solidarity thing. Stiles wasn’t sure if even Peter liked Peter.

Stiles found himself under a row of pictures and sighed. He traced a line under them. They probably would have forgotten all about each other, if the Hales had lived. Stiles used to line things up just to knock them down. He was a shitty kid. Derek would have ditched him permanently, given time.

Stiles forcibly pushed himself away from the pictures, wandering back to the old dining room. He paused, feeling a cool, if somewhat stale breeze pass over his face. He turned, following it. It came from the basement stairs. 

They used to store boxes in the basement, so, for the Hales, it was a storage space, nothing more. In reality, it was much cooler that that. Actually a relic of a criminal past, likely the bootlegging era, the basement actually spread out to the ends of the property in thin, dim tunnels. Iron grates put in place to block out those paths, but those were fairly easy to remove. They weren’t bolted shut or anything.

The basement was probably infested with wildlife now. Mice. Rats. Bunnies. Foxes. Coyotes. Maybe even a bear or two.

Stiles walked half way down the stairs without thinking about it. Then he paused. The basement doors were wide open—and iron. He frowned at them, remembering heavy wood in their place.

A small gust of cold air blasted up at him, making the hair on the back of his neck rise. He immediately stepped back up a step. He felt eyes on him. He felt watched. Considered. Assessed. Ripped apart and pieced back together.

Swallowing, he turned around and walked back up the stairs, pausing at the top step. There were tiny, muddy footprints there. His shoe dwarfed the print.

Stiles didn’t believe in ghosts. He didn’t believe in monsters. He didn’t believe in anything he hadn’t seen for himself or anything science hadn’t slapped its greedy hands all over. But he believed in his gut instincts, and his gut instincts said that going into the house was a mistake. 

He exited the house quickly, still feeling eyes on him. He went out the back quickly, almost too quickly, as he nearly ran into a car. He took two steps back, looking at it as a whole. It wasn’t his car but a truck. Curious, he nosed around and peeked in the windows. There was a walkie talkie in the front and a map of the preserve. In the back, there were huge empty bottles of insecticide.

Once he realized what he was looking at, he groaned out loud, gently rapping the truck’s window with his head. Whittemore’s inspection crew must still be on site—of course! That’s what that watched feeling was from. One of them was looking at Stiles but, instead of announcing themselves, they decided to watch instead. What a creep. 

Creeps. There were three more cars here. Such creeps.

Stiles muffled a slightly hysterical laugh in his hands. He was such a dork. 

Cheered, he got back in his jeep. He looked up at the house, resting his arms against the steering wheel. 

Derek. Cora. Laura. Peter. Of the four survivors, his dad only found two. Laura and Derek were still dust in the wind. His dad was going to keep looking, but Stiles didn’t see the point.

Derek was dead too, just like his parents, because his past had caught up with him and killed him.

As for Stiles? He was gonna figure out what or who it was and then… well, he didn’t know what he was going to do, but he was probably going to kill it.


	7. Chapter 7

_2005_

After being clued into the Hale siblings’ escape plan, Czesław found himself in the dubious and unique position of discussing how one flees a small town. Laura had already emptied the bank accounts and got clothes for them and the Camaro’s gas tank had been filled to the tippy-top. The two of them were planning on just skidding out of town as soon as possible.

Czesław had a few additional suggestions. No paper trail. Burner phones only. Avoid the highways. Don’t make ripples.

Laura stared at him with new eyes, but Derek didn’t seem surprised. Everyone, but Derek, underestimated his intelligence. Everyone, but Derek, failed to comprehend just how many hours he put into researching these things for those rare ‘just in case’ scenarios.

As he watched Laura and Derek pack the last of their things, he suddenly thought, wow, this is probably illegal but found he didn’t care.

(What he did care about was seeing what frightened them so much, what had them acting like they were expecting a blow to the back of the head at any moment. He wanted to see what was making Derek leave him. 

All he got was a half-second glance at a short letter written in curly cursive before Derek growled—actually _growled_ —and tore it away from him. He then burnt it to ashes.

He apologized for the growl, but not for the evidence tampering.)

Then Derek and Laura were leaving. Czesław told himself that he was just going to emotionlessly wave them off—that he wasn’t going to cry or make it harder. But then Laura was turning the key in the ignition and Derek was turning his pretty, pale eyes on Stiles, looking so lost and shattered-

Czesław ran up to the car, hammering on the passenger side window until Derek rolled it down. As soon as it came down, Czesław burst out, “You broke your last promise to me. You said you’d never leave.”

“ _Hansel_ ,” Laura said warningly.

Czesław ignored her. “And then you found out I told on you and you were _so mean_ -“

“I’m sorry,” Derek interrupted, sounding like he meant it.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it!”

“Then what do you want from me?”

Czesław sucked in a shaky breath. “You just- you have to make a new promise, okay? It’s only fair.” He reached down blindly, grabbing Derek’s wrist. “You’re running from a bad person. I get it. I do. But I’m going to worry about it. I’m going to have nightmares of him catching you. Hurting you.” Laura looked away quickly, tears in her eyes. “So you have to let me know you’re still alive. Even if you never come back here again, you still have to let me know he didn’t catch you.”

Derek blinked rapidly before breathing out, “How?”

Frustrated, Czesław just flailed at him. “I don’t know! Postcards. Letters. Phone calls. Dad said he’ll help me make an email address when I’m twelve.” He said fifteen, but Czesław was planning on wearing him down. “So when I’m twelve, we can send messages like that. Okay?”

There was a long pause. And then- 

“Okay,” Derek said faintly, nodding.

Czesław scowled at him, all too familiar with Derek’s ways. “You have to promise. Swear it!”

Derek stared at him for a long moment, as if memorizing Czesław’s face. Then he smiled faintly. “I promise.” 

Overwhelmed with conflicting emotions, Czesław bowed his head for a moment before looking up with a forced smile. He was too short to hug Derek through the window, so he settled on squeezing his wrist again before stepping back. He waved to the both of them.

Derek watched him go. “Goodbye,” he said solemnly.

Then his window came up and the Camaro pulled out of hotel parking lot, sending gravel flying. Czesław watched them until they had completely disappeared from sight.

Alone and lonely, heartbroken and distressed, he made the long walk back home in complete silence. Derek’s flight took a lot of wind out of his sails and it would take a while for him to get his feet steady and back on the ground.

All he knew is, whoever killed the Hales? They weren’t getting away with it. Not on his watch.

-

_2013_

Just that morning, Allison received an email from Jackson’s dad. He gave her the green light, saying that everything was taken care of. Fortunately, Whittemore somehow talked the city into reconnecting the electricity, so they didn’t need a generator. 

Overall, he said, they could film in the old house, just as long as they didn’t go into certain places. Those were the only conditional statements in the permit—besides, of course, the standard warning not to break or steal anything. The places they weren’t allowed to go in were the third floor, the basement, and the remains of the outdoor shed.

Allison frowned at her phone, rapping on the metal wall of the shed. It looked pretty sturdy to her. She just shrugged, though, pocketing her phone before heading off after Matt dodging deep tire marks in the mud by hopping nimbly over them.

Matt had talked her into a pre-film walkthrough. It wasn’t exactly okay to be on the property, considering the permit was for just the one day, but Matt argued that they could use an hour today and use the rest on film day.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not what they meant by a day, Matt,” she said, following him reluctantly. 

“Don’t be such a bore,” he said derisively, but smiled before she could take offense. “Come on, give me the run down.”

And, slowly, she did, going over everything she hoped to film there. She clumsily explained how she wanted to explore it in flashback sequences, like something from the Investigation Discovery channel. But the actual reenactment scenes she planned took up only ten minutes of the documentary.

“So it shouldn’t be that difficult to get it filmed in one day,” she said optimistically.

“It’s not rare for a crew to need several days to film several minutes,” Matt said casually. Behind him, Allison deflated as they walked into the foyer. 

A lot of the dust was gone, but there was still a slight chemical scent to the air. Matt wanted to run up the stairs and peek into the rooms, but Allison vetoed that quickly. She wanted to disturb the house as little as possible. Many personal belongings had been taken over the years. She didn’t want to contribute to that.

Matt grumpily came back down the stairs. “You’re too nice, Allison.”

Allison ignored that and talked about where she wanted to set up the equipment. She needed a station for the laptop and computers, as some of the lighting and sound equipment was more software than hardware. They also needed a convenient dumping ground for video once the memory cards started loading up. She really doubted the cards would fill up so quickly, but Matt told her it was better to be safe than sorry—and that it was better to have too much film to go through rather than too little.

She also said in which rooms she’d like to film which scenes. She tried to keep everything on the first floor and was mostly successful. The only scene that couldn’t be filmed there was the outside one. 

Matt, for all his insistence to hear her plans, was really more interested in getting her in front of the camera. “Everyone loves a gorgeous narrator.” He pointed his camera at her, taking a photo.

Allison lifted a hand, covering the lens. Then she brought it down, making the lens face the floor. “No thanks,” she said firmly. “I prefer to stay behind the camera.”

He argued that she would still need a narrator and who was better than Allison herself? 

He had a point. Later that night, she would try talking to her mirror in a solemn, hushed voice, but would end up fleeing at the sight of herself in sheer embarrassment. But, for now, she nodded, adding it to her mental list.

They left the house through the back door. Matt’s sense of direction was all twisted around, thanks to this, but Allison didn’t comment. She just moved promptly in the direction of the road and let him follow. She was really more familiar with the grounds than she’d like to be. 

“Right. That way,” he said amiably, jogging to reach her. She glanced back at him, eyes lingering on the blood red of his practice jersey. 

“So, um.” Allison cleared her throat. “You’re on the team with Scott McCall, right?”

Matt looked both amused and perplexed by the sudden topic change. “Yeah?”

“Is he dating anyone?”

There was a moment of silence. Then Matt let out a strangled laugh. “God, um. I have no idea how to say this.”

They stopped, facing each other. 

Cringing, Allison said, “Just be blunt.”

Matt was wincing apologetically. “He’s… sort of been dating the same girl since he was eleven?”

The bottom dropped out of her stomach. Allison felt dizzy, even a bit betrayed. She swallowed past it, nodding and saying, “Oh, wow, that’s- committed.” She blinked several times, reevaluating every conversation she ever had with Scott. Wow, how narcissistic was she? All this time, she assumed he was shy because he liked her when, clearly, he was just shy. 

She felt so dumb. 

But, after a moment, she looked up at Matt through the curtain of her hair. “Is he happy? Does she treat him right?” 

“Uh.” Matt shot her a strange look. “Yeah.”

“That’s good.” Allison smiled once. It didn’t feel sincere. “It’s good that he’s happy.” And it was. And she would be happy for them, she swore it. She just needed some alone time to think it over and cry it out—catharsis and all that. She just wished- 

No. Nothing good came from such thoughts.

“Yeah,” Matt said awkwardly.

Allison smiled again, her cheeks hurting a bit, before starting the walk again. She shoved her hands in her pockets.

Damn. Seven years too late. She wished Lydia had warned her before she made an ass out of herself at school or in the coffee shop (all that staring—how creeped out was Scott? Ugh, she didn’t even want to think about it), but, then again, she couldn’t really blame Lydia for not sharing the information. After all, Lydia still wasn’t a hundred percent sure which one was Scott, even after talking to him twice.

By the time they hit the road, Allison had realized how awkward this must all be for Matt. When they reached their cars, she turned to him with an apologetic smile.

“Well. So glad I didn’t ask him out, then,” she said, trying to make a joke out of it.

After a beat, he smiled back at her. “So glad I could save you from that.” 

Allison missed his goodbye, as Lydia saw fit to text her, asking if Allison would like to set a film date sometime in the next century. Allison pressed her phone to her chest, looking up at the cloudy sky.

She had her crew, her equipment, her scripts, and, finally, the permit. This was it. The point of no return. Allison took a deep breath and entered in a date as a response.

For better or worse, film day was coming. 

-

The day of the filming came and Erica was feeling extremely out of place.

The crowd in front of the old Hale house was a veritable who’s who of popular BHHS teenagers. Sitting in her car, watching as the mess of them mill around like a mob of headless, yet attractive chickens, Erica strongly considered starting her car up again and leaving. 

Lydia Martin was the first one to ask her to come. She’d cornered Erica in the library between classes a week ago. “We’re looking to gather a more diverse group of people. For better casting options. And you have this whole-” Lydia paused. She took a breath, like it pained her, then gestured at Erica’s oversized sweatshirt and jeans ensemble. “-je ne sais quoi about you. We’d like it if you joined our crew.” She punctuated the offer with a bright, A-lister celebrity smile.

Erica told her to go fuck off. This sparked a week long campaign spearheaded by Lydia, who, damn her to hell, seemed to find the whole experience of rejection _intriguing_ rather than off putting. It ended abruptly when Jackson got involved.

Jackson cornered her, just as she walked out of the girl’s locker room. What a bunch creeps. Future potential criminals, all of them.

“Look, I don’t get why Lydia wants you so much, but I’m sick of hearing your name.” Ditto, you obnoxious little shit. “You have a job?” She did. “How much do you make an hour?” She told him. He did the math on his phone and then offered her more money than she’d make in three days of working at the shitty local video store. 

Now, Erica was stubborn and liked to stand her ground and defend her principles, but she wasn’t stupid. She was practical. Plus, giving in meant Lydia’s weird obsession with Erica would die a swift death. 

Money, experience, Lydia backing off. Win, win, win.

That didn’t mean she was happy to be here.

Erica huffed out a low breath, slouching in her seat and glaring at everyone she could see. Diverse cast, her ass. Half of the lacrosse team was there. Now that was just lazy.

She slouched deeper into her chair, wondering if this was like one of those books where the protagonist is invited to the popular kid’s party only to be used and humiliated in some party game. Erica gritted her teeth at the thought. She wasn’t going to be a goddamn Carrie, okay? If she was only invited to be humiliated, she was going to key so many fucking cars, starting with Jackson’s precious Porsche.

Erica gave herself a silent pep talk, going through a few of the breathing exercises she learned when she had more panic attacks than epileptic fits. And then, when her anxiety dropped to a more manageable level, she slipped out of the car and walked towards the house.

The whole experience was being billed as one part movie experience, one part volunteerism, one part sleepover. She tossed her sleeping bag in the corner of the porch where there were ten already and turned to look out over the talking teenagers. 

The door opened behind her.

“Erica, hi!” It was Lydia. Erica rolled her eyes. _Kill me now_. 

Lydia looked her up and down with a half-smile on her face. “Aren’t you looking… ambitious?”

Erica bristled slightly at that, but pretended to be unaffected. She was wearing her best jeans, a faded and loose gauzy top, and makeup. She’d even straightened her hair a bit so she didn’t look like the blond bride of Frankenstein. She had looked better in her lifetime, but she was still looking pretty good at that moment.

And, of course, the second Lydia pointed it out, the second Lydia made even the idea that Erica could look good sound surprising… it felt like Erica had lost some game she didn’t know she was playing. 

Erica turned to Lydia fully, shooting her a fake smile. “Yes, well, I don’t like wasting my good clothes on school, unlike other people.”

Lydia looked unimpressed by the dig, choosing to cross her arms. “Well, maybe if you dressed better for class, people would have a better opinion of you.”

Erica snorted and looked Lydia up and down slowly, eyes sliding from her lacy, button up top with a bow to her short but flowy pink skirt. “Newsflash, Mary Ann.” She leaned in. “You don’t have to dress like a prepubescent little girl to get people to like you.” Erica punctuated that with a wide, insincere smile.

Lydia’s face flushed. Erica walked away then, because she had to. She had to leave with the last word because if she gave Lydia too much time to think, Lydia would destroy her. That was a fact and Erica had had enough of that. Erica’s whole life was a series of disadvantages and, just once? She’d like to win something.

And, as rare it was to win an argument against Lydia freaking Martin, all Erica had to do was have one bad day, have one bad reaction, have one random seizure, and then? Lydia would be on top again. Like she always was.

And, damnit, Erica just wanted to win for once.

Irritated, Erica walked into the house. Most everything was wood, so the sounds of her boots echoed everywhere, giving her no element of surprise. She stopped in the foyer and looked up the stairs. Ah. No wonder why she never came here. This place gave her the heebie-jeebies. 

In the next room, she heard the clank of metal and a low curse. She investigated the noise, only to find none other than Stiles Stilinski on his knees, connecting wires the back of a computer. Her broad shoulders barely fit under the desk.

He looked up at the sound of creaking wood. “Wow, Erica. Looking good.” He gave her a thumbs up. He had dust smeared over his forehead.

Erica smiled tightly and looped her thumbs into her belt loops. “Thanks. I see you dressed up for the occasion.”

“Hey, this plaid is Armani.” They both snorted at that. His shirt was old and worn thin at the elbow.

Erica leaned against the table he was working at and just looked down at him fondly. The crush she had was less vicious to her today than usual. She thought it might have been because of the softer lines of his face, the easy way he teased her.

After a moment, she said, “Don’t you ever feel like high school is the worst thing that ever happened to you?”

Stiles straightened up, almost hitting his head on the table. “Dude, I know, right?” He hooked his chin on the surface of the table, looking up at her. “Can you believe they’re making us go to graduation? I’ve tried to talk my way out of it, like, five times. It sucks.”

He ducked his head again, muttering darkly about bureaucracies, politics and showmanship.

Okay. Maybe this project wouldn’t be so bad after all.

-

They were just starting to set up equipment for the first scene when Danny suddenly got a call. He excused himself and walked out, leaving the delegation of tech duties to Matt. He came in a minute later, eyes huge and expression apologetic, and went straight for Allison.

At the same time, Stiles was drafted into picking up their lunch order. Scott felt torn—should he go see what was wrong with Danny or should he be Stiles’ moral support as he complained and dragged his feet?

In the end, Stiles chose for him by capitulating rather quickly. For all the fuss he kicked up, he really seemed to want to get out of the house already. They had only been there for an hour so far, but Stiles was already alternating between being visibly spooked or visibly saddened.

Scott went to Allison, listening in around the corner as they talked quietly in the kitchen. As it turned out, Danny had a recurring babysitting job with one of his neighbors. He’d been called in as part of an emergency. He was concerned about his neighbors but also felt guilty about ditching Allison. With both hands clasped together in front of him, Danny promised he’d be there for her, a hundred and ten percent, during editing phase.

Allison shrugged. “Oh, it’s okay. Matt said he’d help with all the editing and stuff.”

Danny paused. He pulled his lower lip into his mouth, wincing. Then he said, with a healthy dose of caution, “Do you mind if I’m blunt?”

“No, go ahead.”

“Keep your distance from Matt.”

Allison blinked at that. “I’m sorry?” She started to smile, as if expecting a punch line.

Danny shrugged. “I used to date him. He can be pretty… intense.”

Allison frowned at him. After a moment, she said, “Intense in what way?”

“In the no means yes way,” Danny said, eyebrows rising. “In some ways, he’s sort of like Jackson. They’re both sore losers. The difference between them is that Jackson will sulk and be passive aggressive and move on after a week, but Matt-”

“-is intense,” Allison finished slowly.

“Yeah.” Danny licked his lips. “Just be careful, okay? No one wants to see you hurt.”

At that, Allison straightened slightly. “I can take care of myself.”

Scott believed her, but a second pair of watchful eyes couldn’t hurt. He didn’t want to believe that it was necessary, but there had to be a reason why Matt didn’t have any real friends—and a reason why a sweet guy like Danny went out of his way to avoid him in every social scene.

-

There were two hours until sunset and Allison was going crazy. She couldn’t believe she thought she could handle this—handle leading so many easily bored and easily distracted teenagers. Trying to direct them was like herding wet cats.

And where the hell was Greenberg with her outside shots? She’d given him a camera and sent him outside an hour ago. An hour. For a ten minute job. 

Allison now understood why so many directors were bald. She was not going to have any hair by the time they finished filming.

As a last ditch effort to regain control, Allison had everyone give her their phones as a disciplinary gesture. She was several short, meaning some people didn’t comply with the order. 

If she was a gambling person, she would have put her money on Jessica Block. Jessica had done nothing but chafe under her authority. Allison had to remind her three times that she had sensitive hearing when Jessica saw fit to mutter and mumble under her breath.

Finally, Jessica had flounced off in the middle of the scene, forcing Allison to recast Talia Hale. Lydia reluctantly stepped up to the plate, but turned out to be a natural, easily memorizing entire pages in seconds.

Allison took her aside after they filmed a flawless scene. She stared at her friend intensely, tapping her own nose with her much abused master script.

“What?” Lydia asked defensively.

“I adore you,” Allison said in a rush. Whatever. It was heartfelt, anyway.

Grinning, Lydia grabbed both of her hands. The script bent and crackled between them. “Don’t cry. You always look like you’re about to cry or rip someone’s head off. Whose idea was it to film this in one night?”

Allison smiled bashfully. “Mine?”

“Oh, you poor, misjudged child.”

The confrontation with Jessica also made her lose Rodriguez, who was the VP of the AV club as well as one of Jackson’s teammates in lacrosse. He was the much bigger loss there because he had been handling the lighting, but Boyd slipped in, taking care of it for her. 

“I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. Just let me know if I can fix something, and how.” He seemed to feel sorry for her, but, whatever. Allison took it.

Lydia and Boyd were basically the heroes of the day. Jackson was a wooden puppet in front of the camera, Stiles had disappeared, and everyone else was basically gossiping away, not helping.

And if the words “well, I think” came out of Matt’s mouth one more time, she was going to rip his goddamn jaw off. Maybe she was doing things wrong, but she was going to do them wrong her way. Matt’s hidden control freak streak could just go jump off a cliff. 

Matt, though. Wow. She’d thought he’d been so nice during the prep work—so helpful, so informative. He was gracious and kind. She’d just assumed it was his personality. However, in reality? It looked like he was only gracious and kind when Allison was showering him with gratitude and attention. Without those things, he was a giant, instigating ass.

Scott gradually walked up to her. He was helpful too, always packing things up and putting them exactly where she directed. She felt bad about taking his phone too, but he just smiled brightly at her, putting his phone down next to Lydia’s.

She didn’t want to creep him out so she just smiled once and looked away again. 

He sidled up to her and looked at her notes. “Which theory are you going with?”

Allison thought about Paige and bit her lip. “I’m going to present them all, but I will emphasize on the rotten house guest theory.” She faced him with a frown. “But all I learned about her was that she was some kind of drifter and they let her in. No one could find her after the murders, which I think is pretty damn suspicious, don’t you?”

“Absolutely.” Scott stuck his hands in his pockets. “So, who’s the drifter?”

“I have no idea. My contact didn’t have a name.” Allison wrinkled her nose. “Stiles couldn’t remember either. He said that her name could have been anything from Kathy to Nate.” He’d seemed distressed he couldn’t remember.

Scott smiled, his dimples flashing. “No, I mean…” He gestured vaguely. “Of us.”

“Oh.” Allison didn’t think about that. All the girls had either already been used once or were assigned already to a specific part. Although Allison tried to stick with a camera technique that didn’t focus on faces, she didn’t want to reuse anyone. Being the center of attention wore on everyone, no matter how much some of them initially enjoyed it.

Finally, Allison said, “I guess… I will be?” She tapped Boyd’s shoulder as he walked past, carrying a light. “Do you mind taking over as director for a scene?”

Boyd paused, thinking about it. “I would love that.”

“Cool, thanks.” Allison smiled tightly at Scott. “Problem solved!” Then she walked away because… because she wasn’t going to be the sort of person who forced their feelings on someone. Friends they could stay—but only if she didn’t screw it up.

With that, she moved on with setting up the next scene. She found herself distracted, though, and paused for a moment to figure that one out. After a moment, she realized that Stiles’ continued absence hurt in the way that Jessica’s didn’t. 

She called for a break, despite knowing it would make them rowdy and hard to direct again. Finding Stiles had to take precedent. 

He wasn’t hard to find. His head propped back against the wall, Stiles was sitting on the stairs landing on the second floor. His long legs were crossed at the ankle casually. He looked sick and tired. 

Allison sat down next to him and waited for him to speak.

“I’m not sure if this was such a good idea,” Stiles said in a whisper. 

“I know,” Allison replied just as soft. “But that’s why you wanted to be here. That’s why I wanted you here.” She looked at him. “If I'm crossing a line, please stop me.”

Stiles swallowed and looked back at her. “I’m not sure I know where the line is,” he said heavily.

“You’ll figure it out,” Allison said confidently, standing up. “Be your friend for me?” She extended a hand to him, waiting patiently.

Stiles looked at her hand and then at her face. “His name was Derek. He liked chocolate and hated geometry and used to ditch school for kicks.” Smiling tightly, he took her hand and let her pull him to his feet. “And I’m pretty sure that, by the end, he hated my guts.”

-

_2005_

Cackling loudly, Czesław ran down the hallway, Derek quick on his heels. Lagging behind for half-second, Derek swore as he clipped his bare foot against a table. Czesław just laughed at his misfortune, racing down the steps to the second floor.

He burst out of Talia’s office. Skidding slightly, Czesław whipped around the U shaped landing, getting his hands on the stair railing. The front door was there, right in sight. 

Then Derek caught him around the middle and lifted him straight up into the air with a mock roar. 

Czesław shrieked so loudly, his lungs hurt. Then he was laughing, giggling and snorting and trying so hard to get away from Derek and his tickling hands. The world was spinning. He couldn’t breathe.

When Laura opened her door to them, they were quite the sight—Derek looking like a wet cat, Czesław upside down, face flushed and head hurting. The second Derek noticed Laura, all tickling vengeance ceased.

Laura just shook her head, coming the rest of the way out of her bedroom. “I don’t even want to know. I’m late for work as is.” 

Embarrassed, Derek put him right side up again, ducking his head when Laura passed them by in a cloud of sweet smelling shampoo hair and perfume. Dropping down to his knees, Czesław panted heavily, his sides hurting. He was strongly considering renewing their play with a well aimed bite to the back of Derek’s calf, but, before he could make that decision, Laura was turning on the stairs, coming back to them.

Her focus was on Derek and Derek alone. “I almost forgot! Mom wanted me to tell you that Grandma, Poppy and Jeanie are coming for Thanksgiving. Um, let’s see. Who else…”

Czesław stood unsteadily, tugging on Derek’s shirt. “Who are they?”

“My grandparents, shush.” Derek wrapped his arm around Czesław’s head, planting his palm on his mouth as he tried to listen to his sister. Czesław sighed huffily and felt his heated breath reflect right back on his face.

Laura was ticking names off on her hands. “…also Uncle Rob and our cousin and Peter and his new fiancée.”

Czesław pulled Derek’s hand down long enough to chirp, “Isn’t this the fourth one?”

Derek rolled his eyes at him, but Laura just smiled. “So that makes twelve of us this year,” she concluded. She turned her full attention to Czesław. “Actually, that makes thirteen, if our Hansel wants to stop by.”

“Really?” Derek lit up like a Christmas tree. 

Czesław lit up too, but for different reasons. The Hales were crazy into the holiday, spreading it over several days instead of just one. They baked and cooked and played games—and even had two separate hunts! The Hales had awesome bows. Czesław _so_ wanted to get his hands on one of those. 

But Derek’s eyes were narrowing. “What’s your angle?”

Laura crossed her arms over her chest, tipping her chin up slightly. Oh, right. The Hale Family Thanksgiving tended to be just that—Hale family only. Czesław’s spirits sank.

“No angle. Mom says she talked it over with his parents already. He can sleep over too.” Laura leaned forward with purpose, eyebrows lifting. “But if a certain _someone_ keeps ditching class, well… this offer? It goes off the table, hun.”

“Who says?”

“I say. Big sister privilege.”

Derek scowled. He pulled his arm from around Czesław’s shoulders. “I’m gonna talk to Mom about this.”

“She’s not going to be on your side,” Laura said, half singing it. She was ignored.

Czesław lingered behind, watching Derek walk down the stairs. Derek was practically stomping, a storm cloud over his head. But everyone knew that, when he was faced with his mom, he leaned more towards puppy eyes than bad attitudes to get his way.

“Paranoid little shit,” Laura said fondly. Then, when Derek’s footsteps faded on the foyer rug, Czesław and Laura turned to each other, façade of indifference gone.

“So did you get my message?” Czesław hissed.

“It disturbs me that you were able to track down my work number so easily, but, yes, I got your message.” She too spoke quietly.

Czesław stomped his feet impatiently. “And?”

“And I agree. It’s shifty as hell,” Laura said grimly. She crouched down so they were the same height. “And you say she’s hovering around Derek a lot?”

“A whole bunch. They’re always together, talking about stuff. I think that’s why Paige dumped him and-” He stopped, then ducked his head. Feeling guilty and twisted up inside, he mumbled, “And she’s the reason he’s been ditching school.”

When he looked up again, he saw that Laura was nodding, staring at a space above his left shoulder. Her jaw was tight and her eyebrows were drawn down in a frustrated expression. She’d never looked so much like Derek before.

Then she sighed, expression easing up, inch by inch. Finally, she locked gazes with Czesław again. “I’m gonna have to tell my parents,” she whispered.

“What?” Czesław bleated. He felt betrayed. “Don’t get Derek in trouble!”

“It’s not- It’s not about trouble, Hansel,” Laura said quickly, trying to explain. “I’ve seen different things from you, okay? Disturbing things. At best, she’s a bad influence. But I have a feeling she’s more than that.” She made a face and shook her head. “Just… trust me. These are things they need to know about.”

Czesław squirmed uncomfortably before agreeing. “Okay. I’m trusting you,” he said grudgingly. He watched her stand. “And don’t tell I told! Derek would never forgive me.”

“I won’t, Hansel.” Laura tossed her hair over her shoulder, smirking confidently. “Just you watch, I’m gonna have that woman out of here by Thanksgiving.”

Czesław sucked in a breath, staring at her. He was in awe. He was relieved. He was overwhelmed. 

Then his face crumbled. He rapidly closed the distance between them in a leap. He hit her full on, wrapping his arms around her waist. She rocked back on her heels and made a small noise of surprise, not hugging him back, but Czesław hardly noticed. He scrunched his eyes shut, feeling heat there. 

The lady had cornered him once, belittled him, taunting him about how, when she got her claws into Derek, neither Paige nor Czesław would ever be able to pull him out again. He’d promptly told Derek’s mom, Derek’s dad—even Derek himself. But the warning had been dismissed as the product of an active imagination. He’d been ignored by everyone.

Everyone but Laura. 

Czesław sniffled, hugging her tighter. He didn’t have a word for what he was feeling. All he could think of was _thank you, thank you, thank you._

Clucking her tongue, Laura reached out and ruffled his hair. When he looked up, he saw that her eyes were very warm. “Thanks for trusting me. You’re doing the right thing, kiddo.” 

He hoped so. Either way, though, he had a feeling he’d just ruined his relationship with his best friend for the rest of their lives.

-

_2013_

Carlos Rodriguez was a great lacrosse player, a bad friend and, very occasionally, a good boyfriend. He’d followed Jessica out when she left the room, but he resisted her attempts to get him to come home with her. He’d had to be strong in the face of even Jessica’s most adorable pouts—and she had more than her fair share of those in her arsenal.

What kept him strong was not his faith in himself, nor his belief in a better system or his advanced understanding of Jessica’s personality. Nope. The only thing that kept him strong was the knowledge of what Matt would do to him if he skipped out on his pseudo-girlfriend’s project.

Dude was a psycho.

Rodriguez and his girlfriend stood on the porch together. In front of him, Jessica deflated. Crossing her arms over her chest, she walked back inside. Relieved at her surrender, Rodriguez hurried in after her. “Ugh, if I have to listen to Her Ladyship Argent ragging on me one more time about her stupid project-”

Rodriguez palmed her shoulders affectionately. “In her defense, babe, she does have a deadline.”

Jessica shook him off. “Yeah. In March!” She turned around to face him. They were in the foyer now. “She has plenty of time to do her thing. She should learn to pull the stick out of her ass.”

Knowing of Allison’s elf-like hearing, Rodriguez winced. There’s no way the new girl didn’t hear that. “Jess, babe…”

“Whose side are you on?” Jessica demanded. But halfway through the question, her mood changed from angry to something playful. She tugged on the bottom of his jacket, smirking up at him. “Keep in mind that your answer will decide whether or not you get laid any time soon.”

Heat rose to Rodriguez’s face. “What, here?”

Jessica rolled her eyes. “No, in Nebraska. Yes, here, moron.” She dropped her neon pink jacket on a dusty couch and walked off, hips sashaying. 

Rodriguez followed her automatically. “But there are people here. Girls. My bros,” he protested. “Sharing a shower is bad enough without them walking in on _a booty call_.”

“Well I-” Jessica looked to the left suddenly, distracted. She turned her attention back to him with bright eyes and a grin. “Then let’s go into the basement.” 

Rodriguez followed her gaze down a long stairway. There were open doors at the bottom, but absolutely no light.

“No way,” he said immediately. “It’s dark and gross and probably infested with bugs.”

Unimpressed, Jessica raised an eyebrow. She gestured to the stairs dramatically. “Lead the way, darling.”

There was no way he was-

He was never going to-

Oh, who was he kidding. “Damn it, woman,” he said, taking his first step down. Jessica slapped his back in glee.

And down they went in the deep darkness. Rodriguez pulled up the flashlight app on his phone. Jessica sought to do the same, patting her pockets. Then she made a face. “Shit, I forgot I stashed it.” She looked up, as if calculating how much time it would take to go back to the couch to fetch it.

Rodriguez grabbed her arm reflexively—not because he was scared of the dark or anything. Who was scared of the dark? Not him! He was six three. The dark was scared of _him_ , not the other way around.

Jessica looked at his hand, then looked up at his face. “I’m sorry, did you want your Finding Nemo nightlight?“

He stared at her, incredulous. “You said you would take that to the grave.”

She just laughed, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She lifted her feet and hung there like an attractive and warm weight. 

Disgruntled, he let it go. “Let’s hurry up and find a switch and finish so I can get back to Matt.”

“Matt Matt Mattie,” Jessica mumbled under her breath. She nuzzled the back of his neck. “He’s a psycho.”

Rodriguez grinned broadly. He was glad he wasn’t the only one to think so. 

They reached the doors. Rodriguez bent back slightly so Jessica could reach the ground. The second she did, she was off, going _oooh_ before charging into the darkness.

“Wait!” he called out and went in after all. In his rush, he accidentally exited the app and it took a fumbling minute or two before he had it back on. Jessica was mostly feeling around by touch. 

Jessica was a fearless explorer—and a happy one too. But she still shot him a withering look when he tried to herd her into his ray of artificial light.

Taking the hint, Rodriguez started looking around too, mostly aiming his phone at the floor. After a few bored passes of the light, he found some chain links in the dust. They had been popped open under the force of something and made useless. Shrugging, he kicked it aside and kept looking. 

Then, jackpot! He found a locket—an old heavy ugly thing. He picked it up and blew the dust off of it. There was a hinge. With some difficulty and juggling, Rodriguez managed to open it. He squinted at the dusty, dirty picture. One of the little frames was empty, but the other had a dark haired little girl with huge dimples and a splash of freckles over her nose. 

Hm. That jawline was strangely familiar, wasn’t it? Distinctive, it was.

“Babe, look at what I found,” he said distantly.

“Ssh, adventuring now, talking later.”

Suddenly, there was a deep, breathy noise. Rodriguez immediately dropped the locket, flashing his phone at the walls. Was that a pipe? He jerked it up and down, looking for the source of the noise.

Wait, hadn’t Allison made a big speech about how the plumbing didn’t work? How they’d only managed to get the electricity on for one night?

“I don’t like this,” he muttered quietly, angling his phone to the floor again. There were footprints there. Big ones. Impossibly big ones.

From Jessica’s side of the room, there was a hiss of victory. “I found a wall. It’s mossy. And strangely warm.”

There was a hitch in her breathing and the sound of something wet.

Distractedly, Rodriguez said, “What was that?”

He compared the closest footprint to his own. He wore size 11, but the mystery foot print was twice the size in both directions. 

“Huh,” he said. It had to be from fake monster feet, like the kind his cousin got one Halloween at the party store. That was weird. 

_Oh._ Someone had to be planning a prank! Ha! Wait until Rodriguez rained on their parade! 

Laughing to himself, Rodriguez turned to his girlfriend. “Jess, you would not believe what I just-”

His words froze in his throat, because his phone was lighting up his girlfriend and she-

She wasn’t standing. She was floating, feet suspended, a meter higher than where she was supposed to be. She was twitching, eyes blank, mouth bubbling blood. There was something sticking out of her chest. 

Then Jessica was hitting the floor in front of him, lifeless. The light lit up something else entirely.

Red eyes met his. Lips pulled back, exposing fangs in a long muzzle.

He didn’t have the chance to scream.


	8. Chapter 8

They were between takes again. It was almost eight pm and people were getting twitchy, lazy and not a little bit angry. Scott went to the kitchen—the unofficial break room, complete with soda, finger foods, and the remains of dinner—to go check up on Allison. 

He entered cautiously. She’d been a little short with him recently, likely to do with the stress. Scott didn’t want to get in her way or anything, but thought some of that stress might be alleviated if he offered himself up to go do something for her. 

Scott would do anything for her. Anything at all. Maybe it made him pathetic, but, hey. There were worse things to be pathetic about than a wonderful person like Allison Argent.

Once next to her, Scott started to say something. But then he noticed Allison’s eyes were vacant—vacant in a way Scott thought was impossible outside of an English class dedicated to Chaucer.

Scott said her name quietly. She didn’t respond. She just continued to stare at the wall unblinkingly. 

Then he touched her shoulder and she came alive with a huge flinch. 

Scott raised both of his hands. “Sorry! Sorry. Are you- are you okay?”

Allison cleared her throat, blinking rapidly. “Y-yeah. I was just, uh.” She was clearly grasping for words. “Thinking.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Good work.”

“Thank you?” Scott said, confused. With another smile and a nod, she walked past him quickly, heading down.

A moment later, he heard her talking with Boyd about the next scene, only to be told that scene was already finished. 

Scott didn’t know how to interpret her silence. 

But he followed her out and made himself busy. He helped by moving lighting and extra equipment out of the room with Isaac. They had just finished filming the scene where the two Hale kids came into the house and found the killer in the living room. According to their statements, anyway. Some people still thought it was an animal attack, and that the remaining Hales were just trying to get attention.

Like Allison— and like Stiles—Scott believed in the drifting serial killer theory, and that was the theory they just filmed.

Allison was hauntingly good at her role—and that wasn’t his feelings talking either. She seriously freaked him out. She hadn’t even had a script planned for the scene, but the things she said… wow. 

If anyone had a brilliant acting career in front of them, it was her.

Mellowing out the sound of constant teenage chatter through the walls, Scott continued to walk back and forth between rooms, picking and dropping off boxes, poles and what not. Eventually, he fell in step with Isaac. 

Soon, he was shoulder to shoulder with him. 

Suddenly, Isaac made a ninety degree turn and bumped his head against the wall.

It was then he realized that Isaac wasn’t breathing right. “What wrong?”

After a moment, Isaac looked at him. His face was sweaty and pale. “I’m c-claustrophobic,” he breathed. He looked caged, trapped, one second away from letting loose a scream.

Scott looked at the narrow walls of the hallway and immediately stopped crowding him. “Sorry!”

As soon as Scott left him some space, Isaac charged down the hall to the room at the end. He dropped his load there with more force than necessary before opening the window and sticking his head out. Scott could hear his panting from the hallway. 

Scott came in and put his stuff down too. “Sorry,” he said again.

Isaac was gulping in huge breaths of air. He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “It’s- it’s not your fault.”

Scott worried nevertheless. Isaac’s broad shoulders were all bent around him defensively. He always walked like someone who was begging forgiveness for his existence. Right now, he was that times ten. He was pale and visibly sweating, but the determined look on his face was one of a person who thought they could hide their emotional distress— and was, in fact, successfully hiding it.

Scott knew better than to try reach out to him. Any extension of help or pity would just turn Isaac into a stone wall. The guy locked up tighter than Fort Knox.

Just then, Brian rounded the corner with three rolls of electrical cord and dropped them unceremoniously at Scott’s feet. He looked flustered.

“Guys, where the hell is Rod?”

Isaac leaned back, pulling himself out of the window. “Maybe he needed to take a moment,” he said thickly.

Brian was practically vibrating in place. “He can take as many moments as he’d like, but if he left, that’s, like, serious business. Dude’s my ride.”

Scott leaned against the wall, frowning. “Do you really think Rodriguez would do that to you?”

Brian looked slightly abashed. “No, but the guy’s been twitchy since, like, last Spring Break. You know, when a bunch of us went down to Mexico? Which was an awesome trip.” Brian grinned. It fell as he remembered who was in the room. “Oh, don’t worry. You didn’t miss much.”

Scott had been at the hospital then. ICU—fun times! Spring was always bad for him. 

-

Allison slowly lowered herself to the computer chair, memory card in hand. Her hand was shaking so bad, she could barely slip the thing in the tiny little slot. She paused, took a deep breath, and then tried it again. Finally, success.

Allison had blanked out for half an hour. She’d filmed the whole scene and didn’t know it. How was that even possible?

Once the computer was done reading the card, she pulled up the file and started watching what was recorded. She was vaguely horrified to hear her voice, directing after the take went through. She sounded so… coherent? Logical?

She rewinded back to the scene with her as the drifter. The video stopped at the image of her on the couch. She hadn’t gone for the simple sit-with-straight-posture, nor even the simple sit-with-a-slouch. No. She had _sprawled_ across it, claiming her territory.

Boyd focused mostly on her torso and legs, following the style she’d kept to for the rest of the documentary scenes, which was fortunate. Allison really didn’t want to see her own face.

Allison spoke. _“Welcome home, sweetie. Long day at school?”_

The _words_. 

The words were innocent. The tone was not. The tone was chilling. The tone was _cold_. Cold, clever, manipulative and oh so very amused. 

That wasn’t her voice. That was the voice of a sociopath.

Burying her head in her hands, Allison took in a deep breath. There was no script for that scene. She hadn’t planned on having audio for it, preferring some kind of voiceover or narration for that part. 

And Boyd knew that and said, audibly, “ _I don’t think that was necessary._ ” He adjusted the camera angle then, fumbling with it. It swung up, filming Allison’s face.

Allison watched herself toss her hair back slightly. “ _Necessary, no. Accurate?_ ” She smiled widely. “ _Yes._ ”

Then Allison looked straight at the camera. There was some… some visual anomalies. Some strange flashes of light where there should have been none, and then-

Matt was suddenly in Allison’s face, pushing the laptop closed. “Can I talk to you about how _insane_ it is to do all this in one day?” It was less of a question and more of a demand. His expression was tight with tension and all she could see was the face of a person who was annoyed he wasn’t getting his way, whatever ‘his way’ was.

She was abruptly furious.

“Are you calling me crazy?” Allison snapped viciously. He recoiled. “Mind your own damn business so we can finish. All your talking isn’t helping. It’s just wasting time.” With that, she stood up abruptly and walked away, ignoring the way he gaped after her.

And just where the hell was Greenberg with her shots?

-

Stiles was walking around on the third floor. He told himself that he wouldn’t, but there was no better way to get him to do something than to say he shouldn’t.

Allison was doing a great job of making sure everyone stayed on the first floor and, here he was, violating a rule that he himself heartily endorsed.

He felt guilty, but not guilty enough to stop from going into Derek’s room.

He took in a deep breath, opened up the door and saw-

Well. Derek’s room.

Stiles didn’t know what he expected. Certainly not Derek.

Stiles sighed and walked in. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around. Derek’s old shitty band posters were bent and curling. His wood floor had warped upwards in the middle, reminding Stiles of tectonic plates—convergent boundaries, to be specific.

Above it, the window was open and the curtains floated in the breeze. The air had the bite of winter behind it. He didn’t need the internet to know that it was going to be a cold one that night. They’d probably need to double up in their sleeping bags. 

Ha! He called dibs on Scott. Scott put out heat like a furnace.

Stiles stepped over the mini floor mountain and tried to close the window. The thing wouldn’t budge. Huh. He’d heard of things that were rusted closed, but not necessarily things that were rusted open. He gave it a few more tries anyway. It didn’t move.

However, the floor under him started creaking alarmingly. Frowning, Stiles moved away from the window, walking gingerly as if the floor was the thin icy surface of a huge lake. He distributed his weight as evenly as possible in each step. Finally, feeling safe somewhere around Derek’s dresser, he let out a huge sigh of relief and turned to the door.

High up on the door was a mark. It was huge, dark, and unnatural—palm on one side, fingers on the other.

There was a massive, bloody hand print on his old friend’s bedroom door.

-

Scott had left everyone for all of five minutes to get a drink of water. In those five minutes, everything went to hell. 

Allison was ripping lighting down, growling under her breath. Erica and Lydia were fighting, throwing verbal, poison-barbed darts at each other while Jackson stared at the cup in his hand with a hollow expression of desperation. 

On the other side of the room, Harley and Brian were snipping at each other over a missing camera. 

“Why are you accusing me of me now? _You’re_ the one with the priors-“

“Oh, so I tagged something. Boo freaking hoo. And you! Get off your high horse- emphasis on _high._ ”

Brian looked at her incredulously. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

In the far corner of the room, Cody was sitting on the floor between two high chairs, munching morosely on cold pizza. Perched on one of those chairs was Boyd. He was staring at his phone blankly—and who knew the guy kept his? In any case, Scott just hoped Allison didn’t see. Not in her mood.

In the next room, Stiles’ voice was raised to decibel rarely heard outside of lacrosse games. Scott moved over there, wanting to know what set him off.

Matt was shrugging from where he was sitting by the computer set up. He had one ear bud in. “It’s just theatre blood. We’re using some of that too.”

Stiles slammed his palm against the table. “Then why was it in one of the bedrooms? You said we weren’t going in there!” 

Matt looked impatient, like he wanted to get back to whatever he was doing. “Why does it matter?”

Stiles purpled. He looked like he was about ready to blow. “It matters because it’s _disrespectful_ , asshole! That’s someone’s bedroom-“

Isaac suddenly shoved past Scott, shoulder checking him. It hurt. Scott wasn’t used to getting hit without a pad or seven to soften the blow, _ow_.

“Whoa, Isaac,” Scott called out. Isaac didn’t respond, so he followed him into the next room. “What’s wrong, dude?”

“What’s wrong?” Isaac spat, voice strained and bitter. “What’s wrong is I tell you a secret, something I want no one knowing, _ever_ , and you go and tell everyone about it!”

Scott stared at him in disbelief. “What? No, Isaac-”

Isaac didn’t seem to hear him. “Now everyone knows I’m a claustrophobic freak who can’t stand walls because I-” Isaac stopped, sucking in a deep, hysterical breath—all because Scott put his hand on his shoulder. 

He gripped it a little harder. Isaac was shaking. 

“I didn’t tell anyone, please believe me,” Scott said softly. “I didn’t even tell Stiles, and I tell Stiles everything.” Scott shifted his head to the side, trying to make eye contact with Isaac. “Look at me. Am I lying to you?”

Isaac sucked in a breath and closed his eyes. “Say it again.”

“Again? I-”

Isaac looked at him suddenly and spat, “Say it like you mean it.”

After a beat, Scott obeyed. “I didn’t tell anyone. I _wouldn’t_ tell anyone.”

Isaac stared at him for a while. His eyes were like glittering pieces of sharp, broken glass. But he must have believed Scott because the harsh lines of his face softened slightly. “Then how did he know?”

Scott was confused. “How did who know?”

“Matt,” Isaac breathed, looking defeated. “Matt knew about it. He said even a claustrophobic freak like me could handle a few tasks without having their hand held.” He ducked his head, shuffling his weight from foot to foot. “When I told you, it was… it was the first time I put a…” He trailed off, looking at the floor.

Put a label on it.

Scott shook his head. “Dude, I don’t-” He stopped when Isaac’s head snapped up. “What is it?”

Isaac was looking over his shoulder. Then he looked at Scott, expression deeply confused. Then he whispered, lips barely moving, “Do you think those are on all the time?” He looked over Scott’s shoulder again.

Scott followed his gaze and found himself staring deeply into the dark eye of a camera.

-

Allison was starting to realize that, somewhere in the course of all this, she had lost control of her own damn documentary. And who was in control?

_Matt._

She’d tried to get everyone’s focus back on track by starting up a new scene, but she had been vetoed. By _Matt_. How the hell did he have veto power anyway?

And then, to really piss her off, Matt ordered the others to start constructing the set for the gory death scene Allison had nixed _weeks_ ago. When she reminded him of that fact, he laughed and patted her shoulder.

“I think you’ll understand your error when you see what we can do.”

She was so angry. She was broiling in that frothing sort of rage that made you unable to string two words together. She swung wildly between wanting to be hugged and wanting to put her fist through a wall.

And yet, even in this anger, she knew she had to keep her mouth shut. She did not have enough presence of mind to calmly and logically take back control from Matt. No, she was afraid that, if she looked at him? He was going to get it, teeth first.

And, if she did that, if she made herself look like a crazy woman? She’d lose everyone. She’d doom her project with her own temper. 

So Allison had exiled herself to the bathroom. She didn’t look at her face in the mirror, afraid of what she would see. Instead, she turned around and scooted herself onto the porcelain counter. Then she pulled her knees to her chest and tried to breathe.

After ten minutes of cooling off, she heard a voice. Scott’s voice, three rooms away.

Sweet taken Scott, sweet helpful Scott. She leaned her head against the wall and listened to his voice. It was strangely soothing, like oceans waves or wind through trees.

Then a discordant note entered. _Matt._ Allison bared her teeth and growled. 

“Some extra shots from the outside?” Matt snorted at him. “We’ve already got those, McCall. Do try to keep up.”

Scott’s response was mild. “Yeah, but we got them in the afternoon, when the light was still out. We might want to get some night shots.”

Allison found herself slipping to the ground, feet touching the floor. Silently, she came out of the bathroom, following the voices. 

“Of outside the house?” Matt repeated, like Scott was an idiot.

Allison rounded the corner just in time to see Scott rub the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

Matt turned back to his computer. “That’s a stupid idea. You’re just wasting everyone’s-”

“Wait,” Allison said thickly, crossing her arms over her stomach. All eyes jumped to her. “In the editing process. Didn’t you say it was better to have more to play with than less?”

She could see Matt backpedalling. “Yes, but…” He chuckled, standing, and tried to lead her away. “If we need more material, we can come back later. You know, just you and me.”

Allison couldn’t think of anything she wanted to do less.

She shook him off, but kept her voice light, unbothered. “But I wanted to get all the filming done today and spend the next couple of months editing.” She gestured up at the ceiling with a shrug. “This place is kinda out of way, and creepy besides. Isn’t it better to just get it over with?” With that, Allison cocked her head to the side, widening her eyes innocently.

Lydia immediately looked away, smothering a smile with her hand because, yeah, she’d recognized that look. She _patented_ that look.

Matt had the bitter smile of someone who knew things weren’t going to go his way. “I really think that’s not a good-”

“Matt, isn’t this _my_ project?”

A silence fell over the house. She could feel everyone’s attention on her, from Stiles’ assessing gaze to Lydia’s poorly hidden amusement. Allison didn’t move her gaze away from Matt. He swallowed nervously at her direct challenge. 

Because while Matt could manipulate everyone into treating him like he was the project head, he couldn’t outright say he was. Not without putting himself in a tricky position. Not without making himself look like an ass. Not without outing himself as the prick who’d wasted an hour of her precious time by directing everyone in circles.

“I.” Matt blinked. Then he nodded, expression neutral. “Yes, of course.”

“Uh huh,” Allison said flatly. She turned to Scott with a sunny smile. “Some night shots of the outside of the house would be great, Scott.”

“Well, we can’t spare anyone right now,” Matt blustered. “We’re doing the 911 scene.” And not the gory death scene, she noted. Allison 1, Matt 0.

Scott spoke up then. “I’m not in the scene. Neither is Allison. Or Isaac for that matter.” Back in the doorway behind him, Isaac Lahey nodded quickly, arms tucked defensively around his torso. “All three of us could get it done very quickly.” 

“That’s right,” Allison said, even though she was willing to compromise on that—maybe even just send out one instead of three. She stared at Scott for a little while longer, despite wanting—needing—to keep an eye on the biggest threat in the room.

Scott was trying to tell her something with his eyebrows. She narrowed her eyes at him.

“But she’s the director,” Matt complained. “She can’t just leave.”

“It’s fine. Boyd can handle the scene.” She turned to the person in question. “Boyd?”

She was sort of alarmed at what she saw. Boyd looked miserable, like he’d been dragged through coals and insulted the entire time.

After a long pause, Boyd nodded. “Sure. Scene. I can do it.” He didn’t sound totally confident, though, despite his stellar performance all night. He passed her his phone with a heavy hand and walked into the next room, shoulders slumped and head low.

Ashamed suddenly, she wondered what she had missed while sulking in the bathroom for so long.

Forcing a smile, she turned to the two boys. “Great. Scott, Isaac? Let’s go.” All three of them picked up a handheld camera and trucked outside through the back door. “Please tell me there was a good reason for all that-”

Isaac put a finger to his lips. Then, very gently, Scott touched two fingers to the back of her arm and steered her to the woods just a hop away from the back of the house.

They didn’t say a damn word for a good five minutes of walking. When they deemed a small clearing with a fallen log to be adequate for their purpose, all Isaac would say was to make sure her camera was off.

It was.

After it was determined that all cameras were turned off, Isaac blurted out, “We think Matt recording everyone’s conversations.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “What?”

Scott shifted uncomfortably, eyes widened. “Okay, so. You know all those little cameras set up in each of the filming rooms so we can get scenes from different angles or something.” Allison felt a burst of affection for him—here, finally, was someone who knew less about filming than she did. “They’re on. They’re on _all the time_.”

“They’re not supposed to be on all the time. We only have so many memory cards.” And batteries.

“Well, they are and memory cards aren’t an issue because they’re streaming to the laptop through a signal,” Isaac said impatiently. “I checked.”

“We think Matt keeps going back to the computer room to mine them for blackmail.” Scott looked at Isaac. “Or things to throw into people’s face. That too.” 

Isaac’s expression darkened.

Allison just shook her head. Matt was a dick, but would he really go that far? “I don’t-”

Isaac rolled his eyes. “Look, I know he’s your best friend, but-”

Allison stopped him right there. “Whoa, best friend? _Lydia’s_ my best friend. He’s a persistent acquaintance, at most.” 

Scott’s expression suddenly brightened. She didn’t know how to interpret that.

“That’s not what he said,” Isaac said doggedly.

“Yeah, well, I’m starting not to trust anything he said,” Allison said truthfully. She thought about it for a moment, and then said, with a sharp nod, “If he’s really using my set as an excuse to bully our classmates, I want him out.”

There was a pause. 

“Are you sure?” Scott asked cautiously.

“No one’s expertise is worth that kind of abuse.” Allison shifted her gaze from Scott to Isaac, letting each of them see the seriousness in her gaze. “No one.”

-

The walk back to the Hale house was nice. Calm. Peaceful. Allison was on their side, and that? That made Scott feel invincible.

At least it did until Scott heard Stiles’ shouting. Stiles’ voice was strained, high, and desperate—less anger and more fear. 

Scott was running before he could think, racing past the others and up into the house. He burst through the back door, barely aware of the other two following him. All he was aware of was Stiles, Stiles, Stiles…

Stiles was in the doorway at the front of the house, just at the foot of the huge stairs. He was flushed red and had a panicky look on his face. He looked like he was being forced out. His sleeping bag had already been thrown out the door. 

Ganging up on him was the strange and unlikely combination of Vernon Boyd and Jackson Whittemore. They both looked stressed out and miserable.

“The people have spoken, Stiles. You have to go,” Matt drawled with a dramatic air. “This is, after all, a clean set.”

“Hey!” Scott shouted. He pushed through the group, making his way to the center. “Back off.” 

Matt made a dismissive gesture to everyone else. “Everything is under control, people.” As soon as he turned to face Scott, he had a fist clenched in the collar of Scott’s shirt. He twisted it so tightly, Scott found himself staggering and short on breath. 

That was when Allison and Isaac entered.

Matt hissed, low enough only for Scott hear, “You think I don’t have anything on you? Think again, McCall. I can make or break you as easily as these other tools, so you better help me kick out your sorry excuse for a friend or I will _ruin your life_.” He said this with a smile. 

Jackson’s eyes held his for a moment and then skittered away. Boyd looked awful.

Everything clicked together, like puzzle pieces. It made _sense_. It made sense why a vibrant, pissy badass like Erica could diminish to someone so withdrawn, she almost disappeared into the wall. It made sense why an upbeat and friendly person like Harley could suddenly look like she was on the verge of a panic attack. It made sense why Jackson would agree to be someone’s attack dog, why Cody and Brian were just sitting on their hands, and why Boyd was getting involved in bullying in the first place.

Scott looked at them all. “He has something on all of you, doesn’t he? Something you don’t want people to know.” He let his gaze fall on Matt, then kept it there. He raised his eyebrows. “What do you have on me? You think my reputation matters that much to me? High school isn’t forever. Chances are, I won’t ever see half of these people ever again.” He pried Matt’s grip off of his shirt and straightened up to his full height. “So, go ahead. Spill my secret. Ruin my life.”

Matt didn’t seem to know what to do with that at first. But he laughed at Scott, giving him a mocking round of applause. “Wow, nice speech. Points for effort. But, really, dude. This isn’t a freaking eighties movie. You’re not going to win the day by standing up to the bully or believing in the power of love and friendship or whatever.” The more he said, the more he seemed to get angry. The more angry he got, the more unhinged he looked. “You don’t defeat the villain by being brave or embracing failure to win. You don’t succeed at your dream by seizing the freaking day. I mean, really. Wow. You’re such a loser, you know that?” 

Scott shrugged. “Any secret I have only has the power I give it, and I give it none.” 

They stared at each other in a stalemate.

Stiles suddenly clear his throat. He settled his hands companionably on Scott’s shoulders before sucking a breath to speak. 

“You assholes think I’m hyper and spastic because I take speed? You got the causal direction wrong.” Scott turned around to gape at him. Stiles never told anyone about that. Once, he went so far as to put paint on his meds so people thought he was eating candy. He was paranoid about people knowing. He freaked out at the idea of being known as that kid with a disorder—and with good reason too. Look how everyone treated Erica. 

Stiles reached into his pocket. “In reality, I’m normal because I take this.” He shook his pill bottle. “I have ADHD. I’ve had it since the third grade.” He ducked his head slightly and, embarrassed, he said, “Matt saw me taking an extra dose of my meds, which, okay, I shouldn’t do, but…” Suddenly angry again, he made a sharp gesture at Matt. “And it’s Adderall, dipshit, not Ritalin.”

There was a long pause.

Then Boyd spoke. “My sister died three years ago today. I was supposed to be watching her.” He looked distant, almost removed. “I was on the phone with my mom and-” He ducked his head and Scott filled in the blanks, knowing all the angry, terrible things people say to each other when they’re hurt and suffering. Finally, quietly, he said, “My mother was drunk. She accused me of killing her.”

Lydia was standing next to him. She bristled visibly when all eyes turned on her. “What? He has nothing on me. I’m not dumb enough to-” Boyd was side eyeing her. She wilted and swung out her elbow. “Sorry. Jackson, your turn.”

Jackson crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not playing this game. It’s bullshit.”

Lydia sighed loudly at him. “Come on, it can’t be that bad. Have a fetish for mani and pedis? Do you have a comic book obsession?”

“Hey,” Stiles and Erica said at the same time.

“Sorry. _Again_.” Lydia shrugged. Then, realizing she was still the center of everyone’s attention, she bristles defensively. “I don’t have secrets. I don’t. I mean, there’s the fact that I’m halfway through a bachelor’s degree?” She did a slight display of jazz hands. Ta da.

“What?” Cody blurted out, bug eyed.

Lydia examined her nails. “Yeah. It’s not that hard.”

“Congratulations, I guess,” Allison added. Lydia flashed her a small smile.

Stiles, on the other hand, looked annoyed. “You’re taking college classes already? Plural?” She nodded absently. “That’s not fair! They only let me into the one.” Lydia gazed at him with new, appraising interest. 

Before Lydia could say anything, Jackson suddenly leapt away from where he was leaning against the stairs. “You want to know what, fine. I’ll tell my secret.” He turned and faced Lydia, jabbing a finger at her face. “You’re an unpopular _freakshow_ at school, and you have been ever since _your sister turned into a basket case_!”

Lydia paled. “What,” she said softly, flatly.

“Yeah. You don’t have any of the social cred you used to have, and, you know what? You’re absolutely fucking oblivious!” Jackson was angry, shouting. He swung an arm out, gesturing at everyone. “All these people here, the ones you thought you invited? I got them to come. I had to bribe most of them too. All those people you thought you had to exclude? They’re not real. No one wanted to come. _No one wanted to be around you._ ”

Everyone looked super uncomfortable to be in the middle of this, but, to Scott, that took a backseat to the look of betrayal on Lydia’s face. 

Lydia looked horribly hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t tell you because you’re _halfway through a bachelor’s degree_ ,” Jackson said desperately, lurching towards her. “This place? These people? We’re already in your rearview mirror and I didn’t…” Jackson trailed off. He looked drained. “I didn’t want to keep you from that. I didn’t want this stupid teenage drama bullshit to weigh you down, because you would have obsessed, Lydia. _I know you._ ”

Lydia didn’t say anything to that. She backed up to the wall, leaning against it. She stared at the floor, sad and humiliated.

Jackson turned on Matt and shoved him once, hard. “There you go, asshole. You have nothing on me now.” Scott had never seen Jackson so close to tears in his whole life. 

Jackson sat down heavily on the stairs, covering his face.

There was a long pause. Matt was sort of frozen in the middle of them, caught in a look of amusement and disbelief. 

“I have-” Isaac’s voice cracked. “I have severe claustrophobia… because my abusive dad likes to lock me in a freezer for punishment.” He smiled sharply with no humor. “It’s just something else Jackson knows that he hasn’t told anyone.”

Jackson flushed under the combined judgment of the room.

Brian was next. “I tried steroids in junior year after I was demoted from captain. Which sounds really stupid after the abuse thing.” He patted Isaac’s back companionably. “Sorry, dude.” Brian was the best running back in the admittedly low rung football team. They all knew of his desperation to attract scouts.

“And I…” Cody sighed heavily. “And I was asking where he got them.”

“Good one, idiot,” Jackson mumbled.

“Hey, at least I didn’t emotionally cripple my girlfriend, you cold bastard.”

“That’s because you don’t even have a-“

“Ex.” That was the only word Lydia said—one word, two letters. Jackson blanched visibly under the weight of it. Despite the harsh exchange, Cody looked sympathetically at Jackson.

“Uh, speaking of girlfriends…” Harley looked nervous. And then, with a flair, she said, “Ta da, I’m gay?”

Her delivery broke up the tension in the room. Even people who weren’t amused laughed, if only to relieve some stress. Even Lydia smiled a little. 

“Join the club,” Stiles said, high fiving her. “No, literally. Join the club. We meet on Fridays at the Starbucks.” Stiles’ had been out and bi since junior year. He’d been outed after he dated both halves of the other high school’s senior power couple. 

It was a mess. The people at that school were a little crazy about their real life OTPs.

Erica laughed bitterly, and it was like all the tension that had left just piled back on again. “Well, isn’t that just peachy?” she said with a mean smile. “Me? I’ve had a crush on you since fifth grade.” 

“Uh, okay?” Stiles clearly didn’t see anything wrong with that. He started to smile, but the expression froze. “Why are you so angry?”

Erica looked pissed. “Because you _make_ me angry. You make me insecure. You make me feel three inches tall and stupid.” And then, tears in her voice, she said, “You make me _hate_ myself.”

Stiles wilted. 

“Well, that was painful,” Brian said a little diffidently. He turned to Scott. “You’re up, bud.”

All eyes were on him now, even Matt’s. 

Scott had to search for a secret—a secret Matt would know. A secret Matt would think Scott would do anything to hide. A secret that Matt thought would ruin Scott socially and emotionally.

Scott found himself drawing a blank. He had the usual existential concerns about his life, but he usually kept those to himself. Everyone knew he had asthma, everyone knew he was frustrated with his lack of a permanent spot on the front line. Everyone knew he loved and worried about his mother. Everyone knew he hated and despised his father. He lived life as an open book.

Except… there was that one thing.

There was that the one thing, the only thing that was close to a secret that he must have said out loud or implied or gave voice to with only his body language that day.

And that secret could ruin his friendship with Allison, which was the last thing in the world he wanted. 

But… he had to confess it. Everyone else was so brave. He wasn’t the only one who was going to allow Matt to get the symbolic victory.

“I’m… in love with Allison Argent,” he confessed. Eyebrows raised all around him. 

And, behind him, Allison dropped her camera.

-

Allison was having a great day. Just awesome. Everything was beautiful. Everything was rainbows and puppies up in here. 

Well, the start and the middle bits were sucky and stressful. But, that last hour? Man. So _great_.

That whole care and share part might have been unbelievable—no, really, she still couldn’t believe they all stood around confessing things like addicts at an AA meeting—but it was strangely effective at bringing everyone together like a belated ice breaker.

She was practically floating on the buzzing happy feeling that came not only from finally—finally—having a working, cohesive group, but also from knowing that her feelings for Scott McCall? Not so unrequited after all.

But before she could take advantage of her new team, she had to take out the garbage.

Allison went outside and picked up Stiles’ sleeping bag. Then she came and found Matt’s, giving it the same treatment he had given Stiles’. “Get your shit and go.”

The sleeping bag went far, like twice the amount Stiles’ bag went. Three times. No wait, maybe four?

Wow. Maybe she should try out for baseball after all.

Matt followed her instead of his stuff. He grabbed her arm. “Allison, you’re making a mistake. I’m the only one who can help you.”

“Help? Is that what you’re doing?” She laughed at him, yanking her arm out of his grip. “Leave. You’re not helping. You’re toxic.” She walked to the living room area where most everyone was sitting, pretending like they weren’t eavesdropping. 

Allison smiled bashfully. “Would you guys despise me if I asked you to do another scene?”

“What, are you kidding me?” Cody popped up out of the couch. “I’m pumped. Let’s go.”

Everyone laughed.

-

Matt slammed all of his stuff in his backpack, seething.

Goddamn her. Goddamn McCall. Goddamn everyone, swaggering around with their false bravado. They had no freaking idea how the world worked, did they? What morons.

Matt thought about Allison and kicked the computer chair over. How _dare_ she do this to him, after everything he did for her. She’d pay for it. He’d make sure of it. 

He’d wait until he could see the hope in her eyes before he crushed it into paste. Ungrateful little-

He was shaking. Trembling. Was he so out of control? No, no way. Everything was going the way it was supposed to. This didn’t change anything. 

Matt smiled suddenly, brightly. He had all the video. Didn’t they know? He had everything—and he could do anything with it. Anonymous tip to a cop about Boyd’s sister, check. Maybe they’d never find anything, but the search alone would tear the family apart. And, while he did that, maybe he could slip a note under Mr. Lahey’s door, letting him know about his son talking shit. Boy, that would be a family dinner like none other! 

Some of the people’s secrets were nauseatingly emotional or personal—like Harley. Why the hell was she so uptight about being gay?—and thus harder to use, but others were so, so beautifully _easy_ , like the person in question had dropped the detonate button to their life right into his lap.

Abusing prescription drugs? Say good-bye to college, Stiles. Those steroid idiots would never be on an athletic team—good riddance. And Allison?

Wow, _Allison_. Did she really think no one noticed that she didn’t confess to anything? Did she really think she had nothing to confess _to_? 

Matt couldn’t have been the only person to recognize all those freaking fugue states, right? 

He laughed incredulously and started moving the video files to a zip drive. 

Forget high school. He was going to ruin their entire lives.

Then, suddenly, the lighting in the room went off. Matt’s head shot up. He peered into the darkness.

The only light besides the monitor was a fuzz of illumination from the other rooms. It was enough to highlight the silhouette of a person in the doorway of the room. An arm was over the light switch. Then it came down. 

Matt squinted. She—and it was most definitely a she—was visibly naked. Matt could barely figure out her gender, but not her identity. Nevertheless, there was something familiar about her shape.

He stepped around the desk, putting his back to the monitor so the light didn’t blind him. She seemed to take that as an invitation to approach him.

“Allison?” Matt said quietly, confused. The height was right. “What are you doing-”

She put a hand over his mouth. Yes, he thought, relaxing into it. This was Allison. The hair was right, the shoulders were right—even the way she shut him up was familiar. Allison often hurried him through what he had to say, which was always irritating.

But Allison was leaning into him now, all soft curves pressed up against him. She lowered her hand and kissed him. It was closed mouthed, slow, dreamy. 

Matt’s eyes started to adjust. He could see the line of her nose, almost. “Whatever you think you’re doing, it’s not going to work,” he said, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. But he smiled. 

Meanwhile, his mind was running wildly. She wanted him. Of course she wanted him. He smirked because, as usual? Scott McCall had failed to stack up.

_Take that in your eighties movie logic, asshole._

Humming in amusement, he looked back down at Allison. He could see just enough of her face to see long, pretty lashes fanning down against her pale cheek.

Then her grip around him tightened, viselike, and her eyes opened.

Matt stared into a pair of glowing, red eyes.

She slammed the heel of her palm into his throat, stopping his scream.


	9. Chapter 9

“Where have you been?”

Allison snapped her head up. She was sitting at the dining room table, palms flat against the surface. She remembered all the confessions, then kicking out Matt, and then… nothing. There was this huge void of information in her head that she had no idea what to do with.

But Scott was looking at her with a concerned expression, and that? That had to be prioritized.

“Out and about,” Allison said, deciding that was the best answer. “Why?”

Scott leaned against the table on the other side, bracing a palm against its surface. “You’ve been sorta staring at the wall for the last five minutes.” He winced saying it, like he didn’t think she wanted it pointed out like that.

Allison nodded, jaw tightening slightly.

So. She lost some more time. No big deal.

“Is Matt gone?” she asked, looking for a neutral topic. She checked her watch. It was midnight. She was two scenes short of the ten she wanted to end with. She was still trying to figure out if she should try and get everyone to squeeze in one more scene before bed, or trust them when they said they were willing to film in the morning.

She had a pretty sharp eye when it came to singling out liars, but a lie was true when the person saying it actually believed it.

Scott was frowning. He jerked a thumb behind him in that eager-to-please way she recognized fondly from the coffee shop. “I think so. Do you want me to check?” 

Allison went from being slightly sleepy to being utterly terrified. Not Matt, not with, not with- She couldn’t finish the thought. Her hand shot out, capturing Scott’s wrist before he could even think to shift away.

“ _No,_ ” she snapped. Scott stared at her, wide eyed. She realized how hard she was gripping him and let him go, retreating back to her side of the table. “Sorry. Um. That was more forceful than it needed to be.” Not to mention completely irrational. _Damn it, Allison, get your head in the game._

Scott hovered there for a moment before pulling out a chair and sitting down.

“I’m sorry about all this mess,” Scott said awkwardly. He was watching her carefully, clearly trying to figure her out. She wished he’d just ask. “Finding out someone you love is such a pain, it’s… hard. I guess.”

Allison tried to keep her face straight, but, oh. It was so hard. “Scott, are you in love with Matt too?”

His eyes bugged open. “What? No! It’s just…” He made a vague circular gesture in the air. “I know what you said to Isaac, but… aren’t you dating him?”

It was her turn to be confused, apparently. “Uh, no? Before he showed his manipulative, douchebaggy center, we were barely even friends.”

“But, uh-” Scott fidgeted in his seat, looking like he wanted to tell her something, but didn’t know where to start. Eventually, he just stood up. “One moment.” He stuck his head out the door and called out, “Stiles, help me out with this!”

Scott sat back down with her and, a minute later, Stiles was sliding into the room on his socks. “Sure, bro. Sup, Allison.” He bounced up to the table with Scott and Allison. He sat on the corner of it and looked at the two of them expectantly.

“Aren’t Allison and Matt dating?” Scott asked in an undertone.

Stiles squinted at Allison. “Uh, I’m guessing by the storm clouds on Allison’s face that, no, they were not. But the word on the street was yes. Uh. Sorry about that.” 

Allison covered her face with her hands. “Oh my God. What has he been telling people.” Would his influence never end?

Stiles shot her a winning, if pained smile. “I wouldn’t worry about so much what he said as what he posted.”

“Stiles…” Scott muttered.

Stiles elaborated. “I’m friends with him on some sites. There were pictures. Lots of pictures. Of you two… together. On dates. Holding hands. Um. Kissing. So.” Stiles’ mouth twisted apologetically.

Allison stared at him for a long time. Then she put her head on the table. “This is the worst day of my life,” she told it, stroking its smooth surface with her palm.

Scott and Stiles continued to talk over her head, lowering their voices a little.

“So, they’re not real?” Scott murmured.

“Probably Photoshop.”

“Right. Photoshop. If anyone could make it, Matt’s definitely-”

Allison lifted her head. “I want to see these pictures, now.”

Stiles got up from the table. “They’re online, so if you want to go find your phone, or my phone or anyone’s phone, for that matter-” Stiles was out of the room, hunting one down.

Allison put her head down on the table again, sighing loudly.

Scott cleared his voice awkwardly. “So. Um. Awkward timing, but I think I’ll carpe that diem.”

Allison lifted her head just high enough to stare at him. “What?” 

Scott sucked a shaky breath. “Well. You’re single. I’m single. I sort of confessed to my feelings.” He visibly swallowed. “You think we should go somewhere with that?”

She lifted her head higher. He was so… so…. adorable. And awkward, but wasn’t that the charm? 

And yet… 

“You don’t know me well enough to love me.”

“I’d like to. Because, what little I’ve seen? It’s awesome. You’re awesome.” Scott blushed and ducked his head. “Wow, that sounded a lot better in my head. Am I being pushy? Because I can stop. Totally.” He covered his face with both hands then, as much to stop himself as to hide his face.

Allison grinned. She reached out and pulled at his wrists, bringing them down to the table. When his face was bared, she didn’t let them go.

“Maybe I don’t want you to stop,” she said quietly. She stroked her thumbs across the inside of his wrists. She could feel his pulse there, beating steadily, as if it were her own.

Scott stared at her like she put the moon in the sky, like she invented chocolate, like she… like she was the love of his life. That look on his face was humbling and flattering and terrifying all at the same time.

“Am I interrupting something?”

They flinched and pulled away from each other automatically. Lydia was at the doorway, unimpressed. 

“Hi, Lydia. How are you?” Allison felt extremely guilty for not checking in with her friend.

But Lydia just waved off her concern. “I’ve been better,” she said dismissively. “Anyway. There are more important things to discuss.”

“Such as?”

Lydia grimaced. “As much as I hate to be ‘that person’” she said, with air quotes and all, “one of our classmates has a serious medical condition and we need to find him before he passes out, has a seizure, goes into a coma, or dies.” She tapped her bottom lip with her thumb. “Or possibly all of the above.”

Allison and Scott shared a surprised look.

“What?” Scott’s forehead creased in concern. “Who?”

“Greenberg. He has hypoglycemia and I haven’t seen him since dinner.” She looked thoughtful. “Possibly lunch.”

Stiles popped back into the dining room. “Uh, where are the phones?”

Allison waved a distracted hand at him. “Oh. I put them in the kitchen drawer.” She’d just put Boyd’s in there too, right before… right before she blanked out. Again.

Stiles approached the table with a frown. “I know you did that because I watched you do it, but I’m telling you, they’re not there now.”

Lydia crossed her arms. “Seriously? I’m talking about a guy possibly dying, and you’re complaining about your phone?”

“Yours is missing too,” Stiles replied, swinging towards her.

Lydia’s eyes widened. “What? _Allison_!”

Allison stood, lifting a hand slightly. “Just… calm down. Greenberg is our priority, right?” 

“Yeah, sure,” Lydia said derisively. “But what if we find him unconscious or nearly dead or in serious need of medical attention? I may be first aid and CPR trained, but I’m not a freaking EMT!”

“She’s also a lifeguard,” Stiles said in a stage whisper, clearly proud.

Lydia glared at him. “Not helpful right now, is it?”

Brian walked in. “Wow, guys, we can totally hear you from the other side of the house.” He turned to Allison, frowning. “And did you seriously lose my phone? I need my phone. My life is on there.”

Meanwhile, other people started trickling in, following Brian. Jackson was the second person in, followed by a sleepy Isaac. Cody, Boyd, and Erica came in all at once.

“I didn’t lose your phone!” Allison snapped.

Stiles frowned. Then, his voice strange, he said, “You think Matt took them?”

There was a moment of silence.

Then suddenly Jackson was laughing. It was an ugly sound. “Oh, I’m gonna kill that asshole. This is the last goddamn straw.” He turned around and then he yelled, “Matt, you hear me? You’re going to die, motherfucker!” He walked out and disappeared around the corner, still yelling. Cody and Brian skidded out after him with determined looks that said they were gonna back their bro up, should there be a confrontation. Allison didn’t know whether to admire the show of loyalty or worry about the dangers of a hive mind.

Harley ducked in the room them, wincing slightly at the shouting echoing through the house. “His car keys are here,” she said helpfully. “He must be lurking around somewhere.”

“Show yourself!” Cody yelled from another room.

“Fan out,” Scott said quietly. “Let’s try and find him before Jackson does.”

They did exactly that.

“Matt!”

“Matt, you shithead!”

“Matt, where are you?”

Matt never answered. Between the group of them, they scanned the whole bottom floor in under a minute. Would they have to try the second story? Allison paused in the foyer, looking up the flight of stairs. 

Before she could take a single step up, Harley screamed. 

Where ever they were, whatever their intentions, everyone rushed to her side, feet beating against wood and worn rugs, bodies twisting around tight corners in their sprints. 

Allison was one of the first ones there.

Harley was in the computer room. She was backed up into the wall, eyes wide and both hands over her mouth. She found Matt.

Matt was sitting in his computer chair. His head was tipped back. His lower jaw was missing.

-

Stiles thought about all the times he’d badgered his dad to let him see a dead body, and felt sick. Because, this? This was death. This was why his dad wanted him nowhere near it.

He squinted at, well, Matt. Boy, his attacker had really- yeah. Pulled that off there. Um. Wow.

Stiles was starting to feel sort of lightheaded, actually. Blinking the spots out of his vision, he leaned against Scott, tuning in just as the awful silence broke.

“Wow, Jackson, you’re hardcore. Like in a bad way,” Brian said, gulping.

Jackson looked like he was going to lose it. “The fuck is that? Oh my God, is he dead?”

“You were just threatening to kill him-” Cody protested.

Jackson turned on him. “But not really!” 

“He’s, um,” Boyd stammered, breathing shallowly. “He’s been dead for a while. This isn’t fresh.” Even so, he reached out to check for a pulse.

“Don’t touch him!” At least three people hissed. Boyd backed away with his hands up like Matt was suddenly declared lava.

“He doesn’t have our phones,” Stiles concluded.

Jackson stared at him. “How the hell can you tell?”

Stiles shot him a withering look. “Uh, because it’s really fucking hard to cram fifteen phones in skinny jeans, _asshole_.”

“Um, there’s something written on the monitor,” Boyd said quietly. 

And, weak knees or not, Stiles was there instantly, peeking around the desk. In blood, someone wrote the words _lies draw flies_.

“What,” Stiles said flatly. He hated riddles.

“Lies draw flies?” Jackson read over Stiles’ shoulder. “What the hell does that mean?”

Oh yes. Jackson was just _awesome_ in a crisis. Level headed as shit. Not repetitive _at all._

“H-he’s been lying this entire time,” Lydia offered suddenly, voice trembling. She was hugging herself. “And corpses draw flies, right?”

“A killer and a poet. How lovely,” Erica muttered.

“Do you know what this means?” Cody said with breathless awe. “It means someone in this room is a psychopath murderer.”

They all stared at each other for a long time.

“Oh, wow, fuck you guys,” Brian declared suddenly. “I’m outtie.” He turned and ran.

“What can I say?” Cody said with a shrug. “The dude’s got the right idea.” He turned and ran too, which seemed to start a movement in that direction, such that most everyone was moving and pushing their way out of the room. It was like a stampede.

The room drained of its population until the only people left were Allison, Lydia, Scott, Harley, and Stiles himself. And Harley was practically catatonic, so Stiles wasn’t sure she counted. He turned his eyes back to the body—more specifically, the message. Someone had written that with their fingers, so there had to be a partial print somewhere, if not a full one. He itched to find it, to lift it. Grounded up graphite and clear tape worked lovely as a substitute to what cops used. Except that would be tampering with evidence.

Right?

Across the room, Lydia approached Harley cautiously. “Harley, sweetie?”

Harley continued to stare blankly ahead. 

Scott reached out to Harley next, gently pressing a hand to her back. “Harley?”

Quietly, numbly, Harley said, “Is it just me, or is that the bottom of a goddamn car through the window?”

Stiles straightened up at that. He followed her gaze to the window in the corner. Shooting a look at Stiles, Allison crossed the room and pushed open the dusty curtain. 

Yeah. That was… That was definitely the bottom of a freaking car. 

Allison’s face hardened with resolve and she pushed open the windows. They opened out just barely, not giving her a whole ton of room to work with. But even if she broke the glass open and ripped out the frame, there was no room for her to squeeze through, and she was a string bean. There was no hope for anyone else.

Allison settled back on her heels, defeated.

Scott walked up to Allison and pressed his cheek up against the glass. “Dude, the tires are slashed.” He flipped his head the other way. “They mangled the rims too.”

“Insult to injury,” Stiles said breathlessly, coming up from behind them. By chance, he looked out the doorway to the sound of people still running around the first floor. He spotted something in the hallway window and stalked towards it angrily. “Is that my fucking Jeep?”

-

Every window and every door on the ground floor was blocked with a car. People swung wildly from rage to fear as they found themselves completely and utterly trapped. Allison stopped trying to find a way out and instead focused on finding a cell phone. She fumbled around in the kitchen, hands shaking and palms sweaty.

She knew if she just-

If she could just call her dad, he’d come. He’d save them. Neither serial killer nor barricade could stop him and she-

She was just so scared. So freaking scared. And, like, she _knew_. 

Allison knew what Matt would look like before they stepped in the room. She knew he’d be there. She knew his jaw would be missing. She even knew the words on the monitor before anyone read them out loud. 

And she didn’t know what that meant, save for the obvious. And… and she did black out around that time, didn’t she? She thought about the blood on her arm so many days ago. When she blacked out, she’d hurt something then. Maybe…

Maybe she’d hurt something this time too. Someone. 

Maybe she killed Matt.

Allison was in a daze. After five minutes of shouting and ranting, everyone found themselves more or less herded into the dining room by the lacrosse captain. Everyone was already exhausted and capitulated easily to the bullying and badgering, if only for the illusion that someone knew what to do.

Allison hovered near the back, digging her nails in her arms. Her heart thumped like mad in her chest as she stared down at her body. Were these the shoes of a murderer? Were these clothes murderers wore?

In front of her, Jackson was furious and terrified, which was a combination that made him level up from an everyday asshole to an asshole of epic proportions. 

Jackson paced in front of them, every line and edge of him aggressive and ready to fight. “We’re going to hash this out right here, right now. Which one of you is the murderer?”

“Right,” Scott snapped. “Because someone is just going to confess to that.”

Jackson rounded on him. “Are you taking responsibility, McCall?”

“It-” Allison cleared her throat. “It wasn’t Scott.” Not Scott, never Scott.

“And how the hell do you know that?”

Allison’s mouth fell open. She scrambled for words to put to her worries, her suspicions, but didn’t know how to say it. Didn’t _want_ to say it. 

She didn’t want to look at her friends, both new and old, and tell them that she was the one who killed Matt.

But then there was a loud thud from the other room. It silenced everyone immediately. Allison watched several people turn to do head counts. Except Rodriguez, Jessica, and Greenberg, everyone was accounted for.

There was another thump. There was a shuffle and then a deep inhale. No one in the room looked like they were daring to even breathe.

Then Stiles shifted uneasily. “Uh. New theory. Is it possible that we’re all innocent?”

As if to answer them, there was low, deep growl from the doorway behind him. Something rounded the corner then, pace quick, and-

And Allison? She didn’t have words for it. 

It was huge. It was massive. It was furry. And its eyes were as red as blood.

Someone screamed, she didn’t know who. 

The group scattered as it leapt forward at them. They tried to flee. Allison had a brief moment where she froze and looked back. The thing had slammed the table against a wall—and, partially, at Boyd. It hit his hip, hard. He limped away through a side door.

Then suddenly someone grabbed her hand and started running. 

Her vision narrowed. They ran to the foyer, but the front door was blocked. _Up the stairs, up the stairs,_ someone yelled, so up they went. 

Allison was halfway up them when Scott’s hand disappeared. She turned automatically, still reaching for him—still grasping.

The monster had followed them. It grabbed Scott by his ankle and pulled him down the stairs. 

_Thump, thump, thump._

He struggled and fought, but it was stronger than him. And then, once they were in front of the door, it pinned Scott’s head to the floor with one massive hand and viciously bit him in the side.

Scott’s scream would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Crying out, Allison lurched down the stairs after Scott, only to be caught by Jackson. Jackson physically lifted her off her feet and started carrying her around the U-shaped landing. 

No one stopped Stiles.

Allison watched as Stiles bolted down the stairs and grabbed a small table. He lifted it and slammed it into the monster’s back. It shook off the blow with a twitch of its broad shoulders, then a massive hand shot out, curling in the front of Stiles’ plaid shirt.

It threw him into one side of the stair railings, then the other, before slamming him to the ground next to Scott. 

Then it did it again. And again. And again.

Screaming with outrage, Allison elbowed Jackson in the face twice. He let go, dropping her and cursing. The second she could feel surface under her feet, she ran, racing back to the stairs. She slipped and fell near the top step onto her knees, barely catching the railing before she tumbled her way down.

“Stop it, you’re going to kill them!” she shrieked. 

The monster looked up at her then, pausing, one boy dangling limply from its grip and another writhing under it. Its eyes were not just red. They were also glowing—an inhuman trait on an inhuman face.

Allison panted, desperate and angry and afraid. But it kept looking at her. Its gaze was steady and- and- 

Familiar. 

It snorted, flicking its ears. Stiles hit the ground with a thud, though one much gentler than pounding he already received. He curled up into a ball, groaning. With a shaky hand, Scott reached for him, tangling a fist in Stiles’ shirt. They curled up together like wounded children. 

The monster had yet to break Allison’s gaze.

Until it did, suddenly, head shooting off to the left. It bounded into a side room, disappearing from sight, if not from hearing. 

Allison got up and stumbled down the stairs, choking when she heard a familiar voice in that room. _Brian._

“Whoa, wait! I don’t-“ There was a scream.

Allison sobbed softly, trying to figure out which one could walk. Scott could, but every step was clearly agony. Stiles tried, but he had blood in his hair and almost took a header into the staircase when dizziness won. She wanted to take them both, but she couldn’t and she knew-

She knew if she left one, when she came back, he wouldn’t there anymore. She cried harder when they stood together as one, only to immediately fall over as a group. She sobbed because she could hear what was happening to Brian better than either of them and knew that would be their fate, if she wasn’t strong enough to carry them both up the stairs.

She looked up, tears streaking down her face, thinking it was an impossible distance. But then she saw a flash of pink and red on the landing. Lydia. 

Lydia darted down the steps almost silently and threw Stiles’ arm over her shoulder. She could barely lift him herself, but Stiles seemed like he was more aware now—aware enough, at least, to support his own weight. And, without him, Allison easily levered Scott up, hissing soft apologies at his every groan of pain.

They made it up the stairs. Grim faced and panting,with Lydia leading the way.

They rounded the landing on the second floor and went into Talia’s office. Tucked in her office was the short, steep staircase that led to the third floor. They climbed up those next. Distance is what they wanted. Allison would have ran straight up to the attic, if she only knew how to get there.

The rest of them were milling around the main third floor hallway. 

Jackson rounded on Lydia immediately. “The fuck was that?” he demanded.

Straining under Stiles’ wavering body, Lydia didn’t have the breath to verbally eviscerate him, but if looks could kill…

It might have been petty, but Allison was sort of glad to see that shiner was already forming under his eye. She glared at him too.

Jackson deflated under the combined looks and gestured to the end of the hall. There was a huge room there, some sort of common area. They were trying to find things to shove in front of the door. So far, they had collected three tables, a dresser, and a piano. 

Time was of the essence. Jackson shut the door right after them and started stacking the barricade. 

It was a room that must have been nice, once. The floor was tile from wall to wall. It had one couch and a pair of bookcases. The latter of the two survived the years better, as the couch, once white, had turned a sickly green with mold.

Allison very gently put Scott on the ground as far away from the death trap couch as possible. She turned to see Lydia doing the same. She was sort of speechless at the sight of her best friend, red faced and sweating.

Lydia noticed. “What?”

Tears rose to Allison’s eyes. “Thanks for coming back,” she said thickly.

Lydia didn’t say anything. She just pulled Allison into a tight hug. 

After they parted, Cody approached them, looking wild eyed and distressed. “Did everyone see what I saw?” 

“Yes, everyone saw what you saw, now shut the hell up and help us move this,” Isaac snarled. Isaac, Jackson, and Harley were straining with the piano. Lydia and Allison ran over to help. Between all of them, they managed to shove it in front of the door, just in time for a long, triumphant howl to rattle its way through the house.

They were silent for a long time, watching the door. Even Scott and Stiles, as injured they were, leaned forward, gazes steady and fearful. 

But there was nothing. No thuds, no scratching at the door, no howls.

For whatever reason, the monster hadn’t followed them. And, somehow? That wasn’t exactly reassuring.

“Not all of us made it up here,” Isaac said suddenly.

Allison didn’t have to do a head count to know he was right.

-

After the monster charged them, knocking the dining room table back in a show of effortless strength, Erica ran back into the kitchen in a panic, thinking she’d just force the back door open. Mind over matter, right?

It didn’t budge anymore the second time around.

She heard the others more than she saw them. She heard the thundering sound of people running over her head. She heard Allison screaming. She hear the lack of additional screaming in that direction made her think that, whatever it was, it didn’t follow them up. 

Which meant it was still down there with her.

There was a yell and then a shriek—and then the meaty sound of someone getting ripped apart.

It had found Brian. 

A wide palm clapped over her mouth all of sudden. She fought, terrified, before noticing that hand was remarkably unfurry and _familiar_. 

Erica mumbled a reflexive apology because, yeah, she was pretty sure she gave Boyd a charley horse with her heel.

Boyd pressed his mouth next to her ear and very softly hissed, “Ssh.” Even the tiny noise was remarkably unsteady. He released her mouth and took her hand. Together, they walked very quietly into another room. 

Erica tried not to listen to those hideous ripping sounds, the ones that sounded like an animal feeding. 

Boyd was gripping her hand too tight and she would have bruises. He would have welts from her nails. Neither of them noticed.

Then Boyd opened up a door in the back of the house that she had always assumed had led to a closet. 

She was wrong. It was a laundry room.

It was a tight spot, five feet by seven with a tiny, high window. She closed the door behind them as softly as possible. Then she immediately whipped around and hugged Boyd hard. Because he’d found the perfect hidey hole and still came back for her. Back for her and Brian. Back for whoever was left behind.

There was only the two of them now.

She let go of him with a sniffle and turned back to the door. There was no lock. Not that a lock would keep out a monster. 

Boyd tapped her shoulder, then tapped on the top of the washer. She immediately understood. They had to block the door. 

Boyd leaned over and unhooked the wires and hoses behind it. Then, together, they moved it in front of the knob. Erica felt the hair on the back of her neck rise when she put her back to the door and quickly moved to climb over the top. The way Boyd practically dragged her over only showed he didn’t like it much either. 

They did the same thing with the dryer. 

It was hard moving something as substantial as those things quickly and quietly. And, yet, even as they put them down, she knew it wasn’t enough. The barricade was too light, much too light. They were sardines in a can. 

They sat down under the window, breathing hard. She pressed her feet against the side of the dryer and, after a moment, Boyd did too. She knew why. It was like pressing your feet to the bottom of a roller coaster cart. It didn’t make you any safer, but it sure as hell felt like it.

After a minute of silence, Boyd turned his head towards her.

“Did you see it?” he whispered.

“No.” She had been panicking too much to really see anything. “What did it look like?”

Boyd hesitated, then- “A werewolf.”

They panted at each other in breathless disbelief.


	10. Chapter 10

In the third floor common area, paralysis and inertia were the names of the game. No one seemed to know what to do or what to say. Lydia was staring out the window, eyes directed to the grounds of the property. Jackson was sitting on the window sill next to her. He had his head in his hands. Leaning against the wall next to him was an ashen Cody. Harley was pacing on the other side of the room near Isaac who looked shell shocked and tired. 

Stiles and Scott were in the opposite corner. Scott was sitting up, body curled protectively around his side while Stiles was lying flat on the ground. Besides everyone’s heavy breathing, the only sound in the room was a periodic pained noise from Scott.

Allison tightened her folded arms over her chest, looking down at him, but he didn’t make eye contact. 

Lydia shook herself out of her daze the fastest, clearing her throat and tossing her hair over her shoulder. Allison watched as Lydia patted down her pockets for things and emptied out what she found on a low table.

Harley frowned at her. “Lydia, what are you doing?” She closed the distance between the two of them, peering at the table.

“I have first aid and CPR training,” Lydia said, as if it was obvious. “And Scott and Stiles are hurt. I’m trying to see if I have anything that can help.”

Harley blinked and nodded. “Oh.” She straightened up slightly, casting a brief glance to Scott and Stiles’ corner. “Okay. Yeah. Sorry guys.” 

She started patting herself down too. Eager for something to do, Allison, Cody, and Isaac joined them, and, soon, a pocket knife, a scarf, three rolls of candy, a key, some string, hand sanitizer, a pen, and a single cough drop joined Lydia’s nail file, paper clip, and ID card. Lydia twisted her mouth at the meager offerings, partitioning off the items with a sharp, confident gesture. 

It took Allison a moment to figure out her sorting methods. The three categories were Potentially Useful, Could Be Food, and Absolutely Useless. Cody flushed when Lydia shot him a look. Nearly everything out of his pockets had been deemed useless.

After a minute, Jackson approached them too. He didn’t reach for his pockets. Quietly, he breathed, “Are you even thinking right now?” He looked uptight.

“What are you talking about?” Cody asked, confused.

“Lower your voice, dumb ass,” Jackson hissed. “I’m talking about Scott.” Jackson smacked Cody’s arm when he automatically turned. “Don’t look at him, god.”

“What’s your point?” Allison asked quietly. She felt like she’d aged ten years in the last hour. She was not in the mood to play around.

Jackson rolled his eyes impatiently. “I hate to be the one screeching _werewolf_ here, but, hey, if the shoe fits!” He jerked his thumb behind him in Scott’s general direction. “This asshole got bitten, okay? He’s going to turn.” He spread his hands out in front of him. “He’s a liability. We gotta cut him loose.”

Allison’s stomach dropped when no one said anything. Her heart started to pound in her chest. Was she- was she really the only one-

And then, miraculously- “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Isaac snapped, not bothering to lower his voice. “How could you even suggest that?”

Allison looked around the group and was hit was a sudden swooping sense of relief, because no one—not a single person—looked on board with Jackson’s idea. Not even Cody. Jackson’s team mate was shooting him a horrified look, physically backing away. 

Jackson’s face twisted. “What, am I the only person being logical here?” He stopped whispering too. “Huh? Harley? Cody? Allison?” Then after a pause: “Lydia?”

No one looked at him.

Jackson laughed in disbelief, covering his face. “Oh my God.” When he looked at them again, his expression was one of disgust and hate. “You’re the stupid people in a freaking zombie movie who can’t be practical enough to-”

Lydia got in his face. “Jackson, if the next thing out of your mouth isn’t some brilliant plan to keep us all alive, then shut your goddamn mouth.” Jackson recoiled from her. “Sit down.”

He sat down abruptly on the abandoned piano bench. 

Breathing heavily through her nose, Lydia whirled away from him. She went back to the table and took the promising stuff out of the pile and walked back to Stiles and Scott’s corner. Stiles was sitting up now, watching them with a closed expression and dark eyes. Scott just looked sad.

Of course they overheard. 

When Lydia reached them, Scott leaned forward. “Maybe-”

“Don’t even start, McCall,” Lydia hissed. She dropped to her knees. “Now pull up your shirt.”

Allison took that as a cue and walked over to help. Scott was developing bruises where he’d hit every stair on the way down, but they were fairly mild ones, barely evoking a sucked in breath when Lydia pressed down on them.

The biggest concern was the bite. It was meaty and raw, still bleeding sluggishly. Frowning, Lydia wrapped it up as best as she could and very sternly told him not to die. In response, Scott flopped over on his good side, throwing Lydia a wavering thumbs up. 

Across the room, Jackson snorted, but busied himself by looking at the bookshelf when Lydia glared his way.

Stiles was better and at the same time worse. He had a cut on his forehead, a cut on the back of his neck, and splinters in his arms. Those were the least of their worries. 

Lydia had a crisis of faith in her abilities when it came to Stiles’ injuries. That was the only thing Allison could think of to explain the tears that glittered in her eyes. She couldn’t remember the symptoms of a concussion and Stiles _had_ hit his head pretty hard. Several times too.

Allison put her hand on Lydia’s shoulder, but Lydia just shook her head. “No, it’s coming back to me.” She was a poor liar.

“I don’t have a concussion,” Stiles muttered as she checked the size of his pupils.

Lydia sniffled. “Shut up, you don’t know any better.”

“I think I know my own body, Lydia.”

“You puked, Stiles.”

Stiles huffed, like he couldn’t believe that she would dare mention the mess he’d so quietly hid under a worn rug. “Well, duh. I have a sensitive stomach and, in case you haven’t noticed, my better half is gushing blood right now.”

“I’m not gushing blood,” Scott mumbled.

“Shut up, you’re delirious.” He fanned out his hands. “Anyway, no concussion here.”

“You puked _twice_ ,” Lydia said firmly, settling back on her heels. Allison didn’t know how someone covered in dust and tear tracks and on her knees could look so _unimpressed_ , but Lydia managed it. 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Still stuck on that, aren’t you? Yeah, okay, I vomited—once for the sight of blood, twice for the sight of vomit. It’s really a vicious cycle. You should feel sorry for me.” He reached for her hand and caught it, gently.

“If you don’t shut up, I’m going to give you a concussion. _Another_ one.” But Lydia was smiling now. 

Allison got up, pausing when Stiles rapped his knuckles against her shoe. He looked up at her. “Tell the Neanderthals that they have to block the other door too.”

Cody looked up from where he was slumped. “What other door?” He immediately relaxed. “Oh, you’re seeing double. Symptom of a concussion, bro.”

Stiles sighed heavily. “No, jackass. I’m referring to the door behind the bookshelf. The hidden one?”

The rest of them looked at the shelves with new interest. Jackson was the closest to them, so obviously he should test it. And he did so, gracelessly.

It was unsuccessful. “No door,” Jackson said with insulting brevity.

“Other shelf,” Stiles sang softly.

Jackson scowled, like he thought Stiles was making these things up just to mess with him. But then he crossed the room and pulled on the other shelf and, viola. The book shelf moved, revealing a hidden blue door.

“For fuck’s sake,” Jackson said bitterly. “What the hell is with this house? _Secret doors._ ”

“I’m guessing you haven’t seen the basement yet,” Stiles said with a sigh, running a hand through his hair.

Allison jerked slightly at that. “The basement’s open?”

Stiles looked at her with equal confusion. “It was closed?”

They stared at each other for a moment before Allison stood to go check out the new room. 

The common area actually led to a smaller, cozy room that looked like it used to be a nursery. Allison had no idea why they needed the second, hidden entrance, considering the first one was barely ten feet away from the common room entrance. 

It might have been useful to the old home owners, but, to them? It was a liability. A breach in their perimeter. Not that blocking the door would save them when the werewolf decided to come knocking.

They blocked the door between the hallway and the nursery, since the hidden door wasn’t hidden on the nursery side, nor was it easy to stack anything against the shelf. After it was secured with the crib and the dresser, they decided to put Stiles and Scott in there. The main reason for that was that the floor was covered with shaggy carpeting instead of tile. Stiles, for instance, was a walking, talking bruise, and Allison, for one, would like for him to be as comfortable as possible.

As for Scott, well… Lydia had already revealed quietly that she thought Scott was fighting a low grade fever. Scott needed somewhere to lay down where it wasn’t moldy as hell or hard as stone. 

Infection. How the hell were they supposed to deal with that? 

After gently putting Scott down, Isaac peeked out the window of the nursery. Then he did a double take. “I think I found Greenberg.”

Allison looked over his shoulder and, yep, that was Greenberg. That was Greenberg on the lawn three stories below, ripped in half, his camera still clutched in one hand. There was Greenberg, dead for several hours, almost entirely unmissed.

After a moment of silence, Stiles croaked out, “Does he still have his phone?”

-

Stiles had the insane idea to rappel down the side of the house, using only the combination of their jackets and the window curtains as a rope. It was the shortest and quickest way from getting from their safe point—the common area on the third floor—to their target of interest—Greenberg’s body.

The more Stiles thought about it, the more he warmed up to the idea—which was a good thing after all, as it looked like no one was willing to be the one who went down. No one but him, that is.

Lydia was pissed—first at him for volunteering, then at the others for agreeing too quickly. She threw up her hands when Stiles commented, rightly so, that he had the right to throw himself in the gory embrace of a werewolf if he so chose. 

“This is America,” he finished. “Right?” 

Lydia was flushed with anger—anger, because that was easier to deal with than fear. Stiles by no means won the confrontation, but she stomped off anyway. She ripped the start of the rope out of Cody’s hands, undoing it and redoing it according to some strategy in her head.

Stiles was sort of charmed by all this. They were friends now, sure, but he didn’t know she cared so much.

Allison tried to talk him out of it, reminding him of his injuries, the aches and pains in his body. She appealed to his sense of reason, speaking quickly and quietly. In fact, most conversation, no matter how furious, stayed below everyone’s natural speaking voice. 

The werewolf knew where they were, but, hell. None of them wanted to _remind_ it.

“…and, the fact of the matter is, you might not even be in the physical condition to do this. It’s three stories, for crying out loud. Why don’t you let me do it?”

Stiles ducked his head and sighed. “Allison, look… you remember the little chat Jackson had with you all about liabilities?”

Allison crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes.” 

“Well, he could go die in a ditch for what he suggested doing to Scott, but…” Stiles paused, biting on his lip. “He’s not… entirely wrong?” He flapped his arms slightly. “I’m wounded. I ache. Sometimes, I’m so dizzy, I think the ceiling is the floor. I’m a deadweight, Allison.” 

He saw tears glittering in her eyes. “Stiles, no-“

“If you lose me, you lose me. In the long run, it doesn’t affect our survival chances. But if you go and you are caught, we lose our best chance to survive.” She shook her head, denying it. “You’re the best runner. You’re brave and you’re fast.You’ll keep an eye on everyone-”

She looked up at him and croaked out, “Jackson is faster.” 

“But Jackson’s a coward,” Stiles said with a soft laugh. And then, sensing her lingering resistance, he went in for the kill. “Plus, I need someone to watch Scott.”

Allison looked at him with a frown. “Lydia-”

“Someone I trust,” he amended. “Lydia’s great, but she’s also more cold blooded than you. I can’t risk losing Scott at the expense of that.”

Allison stared at her hands for a moment. Then she looked at him. “When- when I started researching this, I had to brush up on my police vocabulary.” She paused then said, tentatively, “Do you know what a proximate cause is?”

Stiles was thrown by the sudden topic change. But there was something sort of broken and earnest and so very resigned about the way she was looking at him, so he just frowned and tried to follow her train of thought.

“Yeah.” Stiles scratched his jaw and then said, “It’s an action that, without it, an event would not have happened. In law, they use it to prosecute people, even in situations where someone’s action doesn’t lead to a person’s death or injury until much later.”

“Exactly.” Allison swallowed. There was so much pain in her eyes. She tapped on her chest with the flat of her palm. “I’m the proximate cause here. No one would have been hurt, if not for me. All this? _It’s my fault_.”

Stiles stared at her. He couldn’t-

He just couldn’t believe Allison actually thought that. “That’s- that’s not how it works, Allison.”

She smiled once, bitterly. “Isn’t it?” 

Stiles stared at the ground between them, mind racing, brain throbbing, every injury singing its agony. Then, suddenly, it dawned on him how he could explain how wrong she was. 

He’d needed this explanation once, but it looked like she needed it more.

“A bus driver does his job, day in, day out, five days a week.” Allison cocked her head in confusion. “Nothing happens. Then, six months into his employment, he pulls up to the side of the road and picks up a passenger. The passenger pulls out a gun. Two minutes later, everyone in the bus is dead. Just slaughtered all of them. No rhyme, no reason—just murder.” Stiles took in a deep breath and stepped closer to her. “Is the bus driver responsible for those murders?”

“What?” Allison looked shocked. “Of course not!”

“ _Then neither are you_.” 

Allison recoiled slightly, eyebrows bunching together. They stared at each other for a long time. 

Ten minutes later, the window was open. Stiles was standing in front of it, reconsidering his life, his life choices, his common sense—if he even had one. The cool night breeze had the bite of winter to it, which made Stiles all too aware of every bump, scrape, and bruise forming on his skin. 

Behind him, Lydia had everyone else testing the strength of the fabric rope by pulling on it. Stiles’ plaid shirt was vetoed as material as soon as Lydia laid eyes on it, but, instead of being the only person with an extra layer, Stiles shrugged it off and laid it over Scott. 

Scott had crawled out of the nursery the second he heard things were going down, just aware enough to know his bro was in danger and needed his moral support. Even though Allison and Harley helped him to his feet, he had to lean heavily against the wall. He was pale and dripping with sweat, but he was doggedly _there_ , testing the knot around Stiles’ waist for tightness with steady hands.

After that was through, Stiles wordlessly clapped arms with Scott. Then, just as Stiles pulled away, Scott’s expression did a complicated convulsion. Then they were hugging as they rarely did—with both arms, their chests touching, and so hard that Stiles could feel the pained breath Scott sucked in when his body protested the movement.

“Hurry up. I’m getting cold,” Jackson said. 

Stiles released Scott and flipped Jackson off. He stared out the window.

He almost passed out right then and there. Vertigo and Stiles weren’t well acquainted, but it looked like vertigo was willing to make exceptions for strange situations.

Stiles gave himself half a minute before carefully turning around. When he dropped out of the window, he was facing the wall. From that point on, it got easier.

The others inside were carefully to keep the line tense and to only give him slack slowly, so Stiles, leaning out with his back to the ground and his feet to the wall, was able to control the descent fairly easily.

But three stories was high. It took a long time for him to get down. Stiles had never appreciated the earth than when his feet hit the ground. It was sort of ironic, considering how much more danger he was in now.

He kneeled on the ground and untied the rope. He looked up and tugged on it to let them know he was going. Three stories up, Lydia’s bright hair tumbled out of the window. She waved at him. 

Signal received, he quietly darted to Greenberg’s body. Silence and speed were what he needed. The adrenaline running through his veins made his injuries seem like distant memories. Once there, Stiles crouched, blinking back the double images of the trees. Crap, maybe he did have a concussion. 

Then he looked down at Greenberg and just… ugh. 

Greenberg had been dead for longer than Matt and it showed. Insects were going apeshit over his remains. The less Stiles thought about the smell, the better. 

Stiles pressed the back of his wrist to his mouth, gagging, but there was no hesitation to the way he pilfered the other boy’s pockets. Greenberg had a lot of things going on in there. He had three energy bars, a pen, a lighter, half a wad of Lifesavers, his keys, his wallet, a Tamagotchi—really, Greenberg?—and, finally, his phone. 

It was a shitty flip phone, something that would have been popular five years ago—top up, pay as you go. Nevertheless, Stiles shot up and did a silent victory punch to the air. 

Grinning, he flipped it open with his thumb and there was…

Absolutely. No. Freaking. Coverage. 

Son of-

“ _Stiles_!” 

Stiles’ head shot up at the horrified shout. He couldn’t believe Lydia had broken their nonverbal rule of no speaking. But then he saw she was gesturing wildly at the tree line, at a hulking shadowed form with red, red eyes.

Red eyes oh so very focused on Stiles and the corpse of his old classmate.

Stiles didn’t remember shoving the phone into his pocket. He didn’t remember running to the house. He also didn’t remember grabbing the rope. He only remembered agonizing over what to do with it. He didn’t have enough time to tie it, only enough to wrap it around his waist several times before he was being yanked up, too quickly and too forcefully to help with the endeavor. It burned.

He remembered the way up was painfully slow. He remembered looking down at the werewolf as it approached the side of the house, licking its lips like he was a tasty treat hanging just out of reach and Isaac jerking him the rest of the way through the window. 

Then he was inside, taking in the flushed looks on everyone’s faces as they looked up from where they were frantically pulling on the rope. Even Jackson looked relieved.

Stiles even laughed, putting his hands on his hips over the coiled rope still tangled around his body. 

There was a moment where everyone was pleased with their victory—a buzzing moment with that jittery smug feeling that a child gets when he or she narrowly makes it into the “safe” zone in a game of tag.

He was safe. The relief he felt was staggering.

Then their makeshift rope was tugged once, hard. Everyone holding onto it was yanked towards the window, bodies flailing to the floor and wall without any control. Stiles was nearly pulled right out of the window, but was saved only by Allison’s fist, clenched in his undershirt.

All Stiles knew was terror because he was stuck and _dangling_. He looked over his shoulder, seeing the werewolf was jumping for the rope again. 

Scott was shouting, Lydia was shouting. Freaking Jackson was shouting too, and it was his voice that penetrated the haze of panic in Stiles’ head.

“Let go of the rope, let it go, let it go!”

Once the rope was loosened on their end, the rope snaked around him, leaving fabric burns behind. Grim, Allison pulled him back through the window. Harley and Cody fumbled with the rope, loosening it enough so Stiles could hop out of the loops.

He promptly sat on his ass in the middle of the floor, knees and thighs pressed tight against his chest and his pounding heart. 

Together, they all watched as the tail end of the rope went over the window sill and down out of sight.

For a moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing.

“Well,” Lydia said eloquently. “ _Shit_.” This drew a couple of stares.

But she had a point.

Stiles rubbed his hands over his arms. It was starting to get cold.

-

“So. What are you in here for?”

Boyd shot her a heavy lidded look. It said a lot of things, like ‘really?’ and ‘who are you talking to?’ and even ‘how are you real right now?’ But then his expression constricted slightly and he looked away, bringing his eyes back to the washer and dryer.

“Fifty.”

Erica blinked, confused. “Fifty? Fifty what?”

Boyd rocked his head back, tapping his head against the wall behind him. “Fifty bucks. That’s… that’s what I’m in here for.”

It took Erica a minute to get that. “Fifty bucks. Jackson Whittemore, huh?” Boyd nodded once. “Ha! I’m here for five times that, loser.”

“Seriously?” Boyd groaned. “Son of a bitch. He screwed me.” Erica cackled at the look on his face. Priceless.

There was a series of thumps above their heads. Silenced, Erica looked up, barely daring to breathe. Next to her, Boyd was doing the same.

“Five, fifty, two hundred and fifty,” he whispered. “Does it matter? It’s not worth it. We’re going to die.”

Erica swallowed heavily, her throat sticking painfully. Her hand slid across the floor until her finger ran over the bumps of Boyd’s knuckles. He looked over at her at the touch, his expression strange and complicated—but open, nevertheless.

Erica smiled once at him, tightly, threading their fingers together. “No,” she said firmly. “No, we’re- we’re getting out of here. We’re living through this, okay?” She tightened her hand. “We’re gonna escape.”

“How?” he asked. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in his voice or in his eyes. He _believed_ her.

Swallowing, she shifted from the floor to her knees, never letting go of his hand. Her mind churned wildly, conjuring and banishing ideas.

Then she looked at the window. She stood and, after a beat, he stood with her. They looked outside.

She looked at him, finding his eyes already on her. She raised her eyebrows questioningly. He shrugged. 

“It’s gonna be a tight fit.”


	11. Chapter 11

Allison’s knees ached. Rocks and dirt bit into her skin. It was cold, lonely and dark. 

“How do you like your cage?” the man asked. Snarling, she charged him, testing the length of her chains, but- “Ah ah ah. Beware the line.”

She looked down, finally noticing the line poured out on the floor and against the walls of the room, broken only by a small bare patch to the man’s left. She subsided, dropping down to a crouch.

“What are you doing? Really. What on earth do you think you’ll get out of this?”

The man lifted a shoulder. “Vengeance.”

“This is punishment, then?” Allison snorted, unimpressed. “My punishment should equal my crime, right? So my punishment would be death.” 

“Death will come.”

Allison smirked in distain. “Ah. But you’re not interested in killing me.” She stood and walked back to the wall, sashaying a bit.

When she turned, she saw that the man’s face had twisted. “My only wish is for you to suffer.”

“And you. Are. Lying.” Allison turned away, tugging at the hook on the wall. The metal was embedded deep in brick. “Tell me, buddy oh pal, what bothers you the most? The fact that I murdered your family, or the fact that you didn’t see me for my true colors until it was too late?”

Allison grinned widely when there was a huge thud over on his end of the room, like someone had lost their temper and slammed their fist into something. She traced the lines of a brick. “Kin recognizes kin, right? I mean, that’s how it’s supposed to work. Well, I suppose that’s how it works when one is not an egomaniacal, narcissistic little boy stuck riding his sister’s coattails-”

“You laugh,” he interrupted, clearly angry and trying to hide it. “That’s good. I’m glad you’re good at entertaining yourself. Because you’re going to be alone for quite some time.”

Allison paused. She looked over her shoulder.

“Oh, got your attention now, didn’t I?”

“I need water,” Allison said slowly.

“Don’t care.”

“I need food.”

“Still don’t care.”

“I gave you _power_ ,” she snarled, charging him. And, like he planned it to the very last second, he finished the circle, dropping the last bit of the line to the floor. She felt the strange force come over her, choke her, trap her. _Control her._

“And you hoard all the best parts still, like a child,” the man said quietly. He turned around. “See you in six months.”

Allison flinched as the man slammed the door short, cutting out the last of the light. She could hear his footsteps on the stairs, feeling them like little taps against her lungs.

She was _furious._ She roared into the darkness, howling out her fury. She grinned fiercely when she heard his footsteps falter. How dare he think he could walk away, he was hers, he was-

He was walking away. He was leaving. Why was he- why was he leaving? _How_? Enraged once more, she called out again and again until it hurt, until it shredded her throat.

Time passed. Her throat was dry. Her stomach was twisted up in pain. She was so angry, all the time. And in pain. She found herself in the fetal position more often than not. Her wrists were no longer bound by shackles, and she didn’t like thinking of why that was.

Metal hung around her neck still, but that was warm. Familiar. Wanted.

At the thought of it, the rage was beaten back by a trembling sensation of fear and abandonment. She was so alone. She wasn’t going home. He wouldn’t come back. Why would he? At least her father had-

A hand touched her shoulder. Allison let out a low, shuttery breath that was equal parts fear and the feeling you got when someone dumped ice cold water over your body. Or when you woke up in the middle of a strange house after sleepwalking for three miles.

She was awake, but she wasn’t too, and that was terrifying.

The hand was firm. The hand was insistent. The hand was pulling her back. After a moment, Allison leaned back, because the woman behind her was warm and familiar.

Arms circled around Allison’s torso. They were caked with mud and dirt. 

The woman sighed, nudging her nose along Allison’s jaw line. She stroked her fingers down Allison’s arm, leaving mud trails.

“Never, never, never again,” the woman whispered in a sing-song voice. Her breath smelled coppery. She sang it again and again, petting Allison gently, coaxingly.

And then slowly, her voice hoarse, Allison sung, “Never, never, never again.”

“Never, never, never again.”

Allison could feel teeth against her neck.

“Never, never, never again.”

The points dug in, starting to burn.

Allison blinked back tears and, choked, sung, “Never, never, never-”

“Allison?”

Allison jerked awake. Everything was dark, save for one flickering light bulb, drenched with dust. The other two in the nursery had burnt out within an hour of use. 

That was all they had in the room—one light bulb and the white moonlight streaming through the window.

Allison rubbed her face, pushing herself to a seated position. “Oh God. I fell asleep. Sorry.” She could feel where the shaggy carpet left imprints on her face. She was sitting under the window, her back to it.

“No. It’s fine,” Scott said softly. He was sitting right across from her in the direct path of the moonlight. It made his skin look pale and unearthly. His eyes were unfathomably dark. “You’re not the only one.”

His gaze drifted away from her. Isaac was on the other side of Scott, curled up into a tight ball and mumbling under his breath. In the far corner of the nursery, right next to the door and its barricade, Lydia and Stiles were sharing a pillow from the crib. Lydia was out, dead to the world. Stiles winced every once in a while, but he stayed consistently asleep. In comparison, Harley slept more fitfully. She was sitting in the doorway between the common area and the nursery, nodding in and out. 

There was a sigh next door, familiar in its irritation. Jackson must have gone in the other room, Cody with him. 

Allison’s gaze swept the room again. Stiles was more or less unconscious, but he kept twitching and touching his head. This concerned Allison. He’d already thrown up twice. 

But, then again, so had Cody. Everyone started looking at the moldy couch with distrust and Lydia was second guessing herself on her concussion diagnosis.

Allison yawned and looked at her watch. It was only two o’clock. How was it only two? 

Allison sighed, knuckling her eyes. She stopped, aware Scott was looking at her again. “What?”

After a beat, he lifted his shoulder. “You were crying in your sleep.”

“Yeah, well…” Allison sighed and crawled over to his side of the room, taking up the wall of his unoccupied side. He gave off heat like a furnace. She wondered if that was normal. Concerned, she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. He was very hot. And sweaty. 

“I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that you’re sweating,” she admitted.

Scott shrugged amiably, shifting slightly to face her. Then his nose crinkled. “What is that smell?”

Allison winced. “It’s the couch. I know, it’s awful-“

“No,” he said immediately. “It’s not mold. It’s stronger, sharper. Mintier. It’s on you.” He frowned. “Do you have mints in your pocket?”

“I-“ Allison paused. She smiled because- because it was _ridiculous_. “I used to? It’s-“ She leaned against the wall, canting her hips up. She pulled a container out of her pocket and shook it at him. “There’s none left. Only the residue.”

Scott looked nauseous. “That’s it. That’s the smell.” He withdrew, eyes focused on the container, looking at it like it was a live bomb.

Allison’s smile dimmed. He wasn’t kidding. “Uh, okay.” She placed it flat on the ground and pushed. It slid across the floor until it went under the dresser. “Better?” She scooted closer so they were shoulder to shoulder.

Scott winced. “Yeah.” He ducked his head. “Sorry.”

Allison huffed out a laugh, patting his knee. “I feel like we’re both apologizing for a lot of things we really can’t help,” she said wryly.

He rolled his head back against the wall, shooting her a small smile. “Oops?”

It wasn’t funny. Nothing would ever be funny again. Nevertheless, she found herself giggling—softly at first, then louder when Scott’s shoulder started shaking. 

“Shut up, stop. You’re awful.”

“You first, you’re the one who-“

They bent their heads together, laughing and trying so hard to stop.

Until suddenly they did. Shoulder to shoulder, nose to nose, they looked at each other. Then, slowly, he touched her jaw, skimming his fingers over it so gently, she could barely feel it. She could have easily shrugged it off or pushed him away. Instead, she reached up and grabbed his hand, pressing it harder against her cheek.

Scott bumped her forehead with his. “We’re all going to die,” he said certainly, defeated.

Allison shook her head, gripped his hand tighter. “You can’t think like that.” Okay, so maybe _she_ was thinking along those lines, but to hear that coming out of an optimistic guy like Scott? 

It was just awful.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not true.” Lydia, Scott, Jackson, Stiles. Harley, Cody, and Isaac too. _Someone_ had to survive. 

Scott let out a deep sigh. They were quiet for a moment, just looking at each other. And then, he said, “I’d like to take you out on a date sometime.” 

Allison couldn’t help but think that was horrible timing, but there was something about the wistful way he said it that made her think that maybe… maybe this was the _only_ time.

“Oh?”

Scott nodded, looking distant. “There’s this place. It overlooks the town and, at nice, it’s just so…” He focused on her suddenly, blinking and smiling so sweetly. “I’d like to take you there.”

After a beat, Allison nodded, swallowing past tears. “Great. Then we’ll go there on our first date. Have a little late night picnic under the stars?”

Scott’s eyes were unfocused again. ”I always thought you were amazing,” he said softly.

Allison nodded once, hard. “Me too,” she said thickly, not that she expected him to hear. “I mean, you. Not me. You are-“ Scott had passed out between one breath and the next. Allison swallowed hard and nodded. “You’re amazing.”

Allison released his hand and lowered him to his side. Feeling eyes on her, she looked up. 

Jackson was standing in the doorway.

-

Stiles glanced at his watch. 

It was two thirty in the morning. In the other room, Lydia looked like she was going to gut someone. He had the perfect view of her through the door. She stood in a wide stance and looked fiery and bright eyed. And scared. 

So scared. Stiles frowned, rubbing at his eyes sleepily. He preferred Lydia to look fiery and bright eyed without the imminent threat to her life, thanks. 

Jackson had woken most everyone up to have an impromptu little meeting in the other room. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to guess what he wanted to talk about. The guy was winding up tighter and tighter and tighter the longer the night went on, and Scott’s presence? Yeah, that wasn’t helping very much.

Stiles perked up at the sound of his own name. Aw crap.

Lydia’s response was sharp. “Maybe if you hadn’t had him rappel down the side of a house with a concussion and a werewolf on his tail-“

Stiles sighed and swung his gaze to the left, eying the last few curtains left after that lovely little jaunt outside. By the way? Still no coverage. Way to bring down the team, Greenberg. It took real skill to do that post mortem too. Finstock would be impressed. 

Mumbling to himself, Stiles crawled over to the window and pulled a curtain down. It was a heavy thing, needlessly ornate for a nursery. He burritoed himself into it and scooted back to Scott. 

Voices rose again from the next room as Stiles none too gracefully eased himself into a sitting position. Neither he nor Scott had been invited to the meeting, but they sure as hell couldn’t help but overhear it anyway. 

Scott was staring fixedly through the doorway. He seemed a hell of a lot more alert than he had just an hour ago. Hm. Stiles could have sworn Scott was asleep a moment ago.

After a beat, Stiles swallowed and whispered, “Did you notice what I did?” He rubbed his hands up and down his arms. He was cold and tired. He yawned hugely.

Scott blinked and shifted his focus away from the door. “Hm?”

“The werewolf. Back by the stairs. When it had us.” Stiles hesitated and then said, “Allison said stop and it did.”

After a moment, Scott nodded. “You noticed that too, huh?”

As a unit, they turned their attention away from each other and back to the door. They watched as Allison crossed her arms over her stomach, her expression twisted up into a wince. They could see Harley’s arm waving around. They could hear the meeting devolve into bickering between Jackson and Lydia. They could hear Isaac hissing at everyone to shut up.

Regardless of point of view or intentions or opinions, everyone silenced at the sound of a long, triumphant howl.

-

Erica jerked awake guiltily. After making sure they could open the window, they had closed it again and sat back down, waiting for the best time to flee. Now wasn’t a good time, especially when they periodically heard something running around in the grass just outside. 

Erica felt like shit for saying it, but she suggested they tried to escape when the werewolf was distracted by the other survivors upstairs. Boyd’s face spasmed in a look of pain, but, slowly, he nodded. 

It was their best chance of survival. 

Now, though, they were just waiting. Waiting and listening. 

And Erica had fallen _asleep_ , goddamn.

Self-consciously, she wiped off Boyd’s shoulder. “Sorry,” she said gruffly.

He smiled at her tiredly. “It’s fine.” Then, after a beat, he said, “You’re warm.”

Erica looked away at that, feeling her cheeks itch with heat. She stretched out her legs, flexing her feet against the dryer.

“I’m epileptic,” she said suddenly. She winced. _A+ on the delivery, Captain Obvious._

Erica saw he was gazing at her calmly. “I know.”

Erica grimaced. “No, I mean-“ Rattled, she reorganized her thoughts. And then, carefully, she said, “When we escape. If I have a seizure-“

“Don’t,” Boyd said sharply.

Erica glowered at him. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say,” she accused.

Boyd looked stubborn. “I know you. So, no.”

“You don’t know me. Nobody knows me.”

With a hint of temper in his eyes, he turned to face her fully. “You were going to say to leave you behind. You were going to say that I should leave you there to distract the werewolf.”

Erica flinched. Finally, she said, “I wouldn’t have felt it. If it attacked me. I’m never totally… aware. During, I mean.”

“My answer stands. _No._ ”Jaw tightening, Boyd turned his attention back to the dryer.

For a long time, silence reigned supreme. Erica felt like it was her duty to break it, but she wasn’t sure how.

Finally, she whispered, “How did you know?” The question came out more vulnerably that she would have liked it to, but, hell. There was no room for pretense here. 

She was vulnerable. They all were.

Boyd sighed. “I don’t have any friends. So I watch. I notice things.” He tipped his chin up slightly, avoiding her gaze. Each word came out with the care of someone who frequently carried such things close to his chest and liked not to drop them. “I noticed that you like comic books. I noticed you like video games. I noticed you don’t like to lose. I noticed how angry you get when someone treats you like glass.” He glanced at her then. “I noticed you talking that girl off the roof last year, when all everyone else noticed was her. I noticed how kind you can be, how brave.”

Erica felt choked. She felt like she was drowning. The emotions running through her were complicated, tangling around each other until finally, she burst out, “If you know me so well, why didn’t you talk to me? I could have-“ She could have used that. Softly, she said, “We could have been friends.”

Boyd swallowed thickly. “I guess… I guess I was afraid.”

After a moment, Erica nodded. She wrapped her arms around the closest one of his and pressed her forehead against his shoulder.

It was quiet upstairs.

-

Allison pinched her nose. Lydia and Jackson were embroiled in a heated, whispered, but nevertheless futile argument about what to do with Scott. 

No one was going to do anything to Scott. That was final. And, as soon as Jackson got that, the better.

Jackson was a mess. His face was flushed and his eyebrows were drawn sharply downward. He stabbed his finger to the floor. “It’s waiting,” he spat out, “and you know why it’s waiting? It’s waiting because you have a member of its pack in the other room and if you were just a little less _stupid_ -“

Lydia turned a dull shade of pink. Before she could snarl something venomous right back at him, Allison stepped between them. “Woah, wait a second. You’re assuming an awful lot.”

Jackson rolled his eyes, like she was wasting his time. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Um,” Harley chimed in, scratching her ear. “Like it bit Scott on purpose? That it meant for Scott to be anything but food? That the bite turns at all?”

Jackson sputtered incoherently. “So?”

Allison frowned at him. “So you could be risking someone’s life over a whole lot of what ifs-“

“And I reiterate. So?” Jackson tipped his chin up defiantly. “It’s just McCall.”

There was a moment of silence. Then, abruptly, it was broken in a flurry of hisses and whispers.

“Dude, come on,” Cody whined. “It’s Scott. I like Scott.”

“You’re some piece of work-“ That was Isaac.

“I always thought you were a cold hearted dick, but, wow, way to seal that in, big guy,” said Harley.

Before the argument could devolve much farther, there was a sharp knock at the barricaded door.


	12. Chapter 12

Everyone stared at each other. They were silent, wide eyed, and barely daring to breathe.

The knocking came again, impatient. And then, gruffly, a female voice filtered in. “We know you’re in there. Open up.”

“We?” Lydia mouthed to Allison. Allison shrugged. The voice wasn’t familiar to her. 

Isaac was closest to the door. By virtue of his proximity, he was the target of several pointed looks from everyone else, each expressing something different. Answer her. Don’t answer her. Move the barricade. Don’t move the barricade.

Finally, Isaac cleared his throat and said, waveringly, “Uh, who is it?”

Jackson facepalmed. Likewise, Harley shifted irritably. Allison had mixed feelings, personally.

The woman behind the door sighed. “Let’s just say we’re the ticket to you getting out of here alive.”

There was a moment of silence as everyone absorbed that. Then Isaac shrugged and started moving things out of the way of the door. Jackson crossed the room quickly. Stupidly, Allison thought it was to help. Then Jackson grabbed Isaac and jerked him half a step away from the barricade.

“Wow, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Jackson hissed, white knuckling Isaac’s wrist.

Isaac’s face twisted. “You got any better ideas, _captain_?” With a snarl, he jerked his wrist free and started taking the barricade down again. Jackson seemed stunned.

Gradually, the others moved to help. Well, most of the others. Jackson hung back. Allison couldn’t tell if he was sulking or if he wanted to stay as far away from the barricade as possible. (She was pretty sure he was sulking.) They started first with the piano before moving onto the other things. With a little bit of teamwork, they managed to bring down the barricade a few minutes later and open the door.

Two people were in the hallway—a woman and a man. Allison didn’t recognize either of them. She looked to the others to see if they did, but most everyone had a look of caution on their faces—no recognition.

Jackson stepped in line with the rest of them. He crossed his arms over his chest. “So. Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

The woman arched an eyebrow and stepped through the doorway. She was tall, thin—too thin—but undeniably good looking. “We could ask the same of you.” She had a smoky sort of voice that matched her strangely colored eyes.

Jackson tipped his head up. “We asked first. And there’s more of us. We could overpower you.” And, disagreements or not, Allison joined the others in closing ranks. She knew her friends, she knew her classmates. The people in front of her were strangers, maybe even enemies.

The woman didn’t help that impression when she just laughed derisively. “It’d take an army of you to overpower us.”

The man stepped up, clearly elbowing her from behind. A displeased look ran over her face as she looked back at him. When he just gave her a blank look, she relented, turning back to Allison and her classmates with an odd sort of grimacing smile—half fake, half apologetic. The man hadn’t said a damn word, but Allison still got the feeling he’d chided the woman to be nice.

Allison’s gaze drifted over to the man. There was an odd reverse synchrony between the two strangers, like they were used to inhabiting and moving in each other’s space. The female had lighter hair and paler eyes, but the two of them still looked awfully similar with the same high cheekbones, the same long nose, the same flat mouth. The male had height on her. And bulk. And stubble—a week’s worth of it too. But they still looked very alike. They were either siblings or close cousins.

The man looked away briefly to pull a strap off his shoulder. Gingerly and with much care, he set his backpack on the floor. 

Emboldened by that, Harley bravely stepped forward. “So. Um. It looks like we got off to a bad start,” she said, spreading her hands out in front of her. “See, we’ve been sort of treed by this-“

“Werewolf?” The man’s voice was softer than she expected, but did little to ease the dismissive focus of his eyes. “Yeah. We know.” Abruptly, his gaze shifted from Harley to Allison. Allison’s hackles shot up as his eyebrows pulled down. “What are you looking at?”

Allison took half a step back, nervous. “N-nothing,” she said waveringly. And then, suddenly indignant at the distrustful look in his eyes (directed at her, and only at her), Allison straightened her posture and said firmly, “You just look familiar.” 

It wasn’t a lie either. There was something about his face or his ears that tickled at her memory. Had she seen him around town? At school? In the store?

The man snorted, no amusement in it. “You too, _Argent_.”

Allison recoiled slightly at the way he spat out her family name. This time, the woman was the one to elbow. When he looked back at her, the woman shook her head. He drew back slightly at that, then looked at Allison with a hollowed out expression.

Allison felt nauseous. 

Lydia chose to take charge then, stepping between them. “Well, this is all fascinating, isn’t it? Just amazing.” She shared her sarcastic smile with everyone, turning in a circle before facing the strangers again. “So. Any of you have any medical training? We have injured.”

The man’s expression changed, sharpened, something like concern flitting through it. “We have some. How badly are they hurt?” 

“One got slammed into the ground repeatedly,” Isaac said quietly, “the other one got bit.”

The man looked back at the woman. “Bit?” he mumbled.

“And lives?” she questioned, looking surprised.

Lydia’s eyes widened in alarm. “And, and the other one’s brain might be scrambled!” she said, slightly shrill. When they ignored her, she turned to Allison, hissing, “Are they hard of hearing?”

Before anyone could tell them where Scott and Stiles were, they were suddenly turning and heading for the nursery. Allison almost got stuck in the doorway in her haste to follow. Two people could get through the doorway at once, but four people? That was pushing it.

By the time they all filed into the smaller room, the two strangers were already focused on Scott. The man was crouched down next to Stiles, but didn’t look at him. In his defense, Stiles had made it rather difficult, having cocooned himself up in the curtain so tightly, not even his face was free. He wiggled and let out sleepy mumbles, oblivious to his surroundings.

Allison was of the personal opinion that Stiles was fine—would be fine, anyway. Stiles was vocally of the same opinion, but sure as hell took advantage of the situation to stay near Scott. Allison empathized with the urge to sit by Scott—to check his temperature, to see if he was alright.

Speaking of Scott…

The woman had her hand on Scott’s cheek. Scott was present and awake, if a bit groggy. Something strange and possessive flared through Allison, dying as soon as it appeared. She felt flustered by it, nevertheless.

Lydia cleared her throat self-consciously. “So, he was bitten. Since then, he has had fever, irritability. Some sweating. He has moments where he, um, lacks lucidity-“

“Goddamn it, Lydia,” Jackson muttered, rubbing his face.

“But he comes back!” she snapped, shooting Jackson a death glare. She looked back at Laura. “So. Do you think he has an infection or something?”

“Or something,” the woman said. She lifted Scott’s shirt. “Sorry for this.” She pressed her heel on the bite. 

Her warning was the only reason Allison could keep still, because, a moment later, Scott was hissing through his teeth and curling his hands into fists. His body arched up from the floor, falling back down a second later when the woman took her hand away. He breathed hard, blinking rapidly.

The woman was looking at her palm. “You’re bleeding red. That’s a good sign.”

“H-how?” Scott asked breathlessly. After a beat, the woman smiled at him.

Meanwhile, Lydia prodded the man’s thigh with her toe. “Well? Are you just going to crouch there and look pretty?”

He rolled his eyes, but nevertheless started tugging on curtain around Stiles—none too gently, Allison noticed. “Where did your head hit the ground. Hey, kid, look up at me and-” 

Stiles resisted, clinging onto the curtain—and to sleep.

“You’re not going to win this one, kid.” The man sighed irritably and pulled at the blanket with more force.

Then the curtain was falling from around Stiles’ head, allowing him blink owlishly at the stranger. The man’s questions ended abruptly in a choked breath. Allison looked at him closer then, surprised at the reaction from someone who generally tried to look very much like a wall.

It took Stiles a while to shake the sleep off, to really see what was in front of him. When he did, though, the reaction was instantaneous—eyes widening, mouth dropping open, breathing hitching. 

And, there. There it was. There it was, that thing she was looking for in the faces of everyone else.

_Recognition._

Was Allison was the only one paying attention to them? Her gaze shot from Stiles to the stranger. The man’s pale eyes were dilating as emotions flashed over his face: recognition, shock, amazement, and, finally, fear.

And then, gravely, Stiles whispered, “Wow. You’re- You’re bigger than I remember.”

And then, finally, everyone’s eyes were on them.

-

Derek.

Derek, Derek, Derek. 

Stiles’ heart soared and dropped and soared again as Derek continued to stare at him with a frozen expression. 

Derek, he looked… he looked good. Really, really good. Puberty, you win again. 

Five years, though. Five years incommunicado. Five years of nothing.

Derek choked out, “Cz- Czesl-“

Elation abruptly dropped into deep seated rage. 

Stiles slapped a hand over his mouth. “Wow, nope. Gonna stop you right there.” Stubble rubbed all over his palms, which would have been intriguing, if Stiles wasn’t so _enraged_.

Okay, so maybe it was still intriguing. Shut up.

“Oh my- Oh my _God_ ,” Jackson was suddenly sputtering out, laughing. “ _Chestwab_. Chestswab Stilinski. I can’t believe I forgot that!” Derek blinked rapidly, as if not knowing what to make of that. Scott kicked Jackson’s ankle like a total bro. “Ow!”

Stiles forced a smile and tried to find a friendly face in the crowd. Ah, Allison. She looked so confused.

Stiles waved a hand towards the Hale siblings. “These are Laura and Derek Hale. And it’s Stiles now, dick.” Stiles glowered at Derek for his slip, but Derek didn’t even react. He kept on searching Stiles’ face, like he was looking for something. Or memorizing something. Either way, his gaze was intense.

“You-” And Derek was angry now, wow. “You shouldn’t be here,” he hissed. His hands were tight on Stiles’ curtain. Well, technically Talia’s curtain, but possession was nine tenths of the law, right? Point is, Stiles was willing to fight for that curtain. It made him feel warm and sleepy.

In the background, Cody shifted anxiously. “We- we have permission to be here, right?” He was always squirrely when it came to the law. Watching him trying to talk to Stiles’ dad was _hilarious_. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Laura replied, rising smoothly. “This is private property.”

Lydia snorted at her. “Yeah, no.” She smiled thinly at Laura’s arched eyebrow. “It’s actually county property. Nice try, sweetheart.” Behind her, Cody let out a huge sigh of relief. How he could be fretting over a little misdemeanor trespassing when there was a freaking horror movie monster out there was just beyond Stiles.

“That’s not what she meant,” Derek said quietly, face pulling into a frown. Although he was talking to her, he kept directing his unhappy face at Stiles, which was un-freaking-fair.

Lydia tipped her chin up. “Well, then she should say what she means and mean what she says.” 

“Lydia,” Allison hissed.

“What?” Lydia waved a hand at Laura and Derek. “Here they are, giving us the third degree and treating us like crap for- for- for being _stuck_ here, and they haven’t even explained a, why they’re here, b, how they knew _we’d_ be here, and c, how they got past a freaking _werewolf_!” She ended with a stomp of her foot, face flushing prettily.

Everything suddenly clicked together in Stiles’ head. “Oh god,” he muttered.

Derek swung his attention back towards Stiles. Laura too, after a beat.

“All excellent points,” Harley said, crossing her arms over her chest.

Lydia mimicked her pose. “Thank you, Harley.” 

Isaac stepped up as the peacemaker. “That being said, is this really the time to-“

“The Hale House Massacre,” Stiles whispered. Everyone went quiet. “Picked lock, but wolf hairs. An attacker who laid in wait. Claw marks. _Bites._ ” He shook his head. “Bites no one could identify.” He rocked his head back against the wall. “Ugh, why am I so dumb?”

Scott nudged him. “Stiles?”

Stiles ignored him for a moment before rocking his head back down, making eye contact with Derek again. Derek seemed smaller, diminished. Like he already knew what Stiles was about to say.

“This whole time, your family. It was wiped out by werewolves.” And you knew, Stiles thought but didn’t say. He frowned, thinking about it. “No. Werewolf. Singular.” Then he shook his head. “But that person didn’t mean to kill you all. Bites were clean. He was- he was trying to turn you, like Scott. But it went wrong.” He thought about the hand Laura pressed into Scott’s bite, then the initial report about contaminated samples. “Black goo. Black goo was rejection. But everyone had similar injuries, you and everyone who died, which means you guys didn’t-”

“Are you done?” Derek interrupted. Stiles flinched at the look in his eyes. If his earlier anger was heat, then this was ice. Glacial and cold, he froze Stiles out, rising to his feet. “He doesn’t have a concussion.” Then he walked away.

For a moment, Stiles wilted, feeling abandoned. Just as quickly, though, rage whipped it away. Rage and confusion. 

Mostly confusion.

If Derek wanted to be a dick because Stiles Sherlock Holmes’d his ass, that was his own problem.

“Woah,” Jackson said, “wait a second. You assholes are werewolves too?” Ding ding ding. We have a winner.

Laura’s dismissive hair toss was as effectively infuriating as it was eight years ago.

“Boo,” she said flatly, hooking her thumbs in her jackets’ pockets.

-

There was a heavy moment of silence following that confession.

Then, absurdly, Jackson grabbed a chair and brandished it in front of him like a weapon.

Laura shot him an unimpressed look. “Oh please. Put it down before you embarrass yourself.” She pushed past them to the common area, her destination the window. “Damn, you kids have really dug yourself in deep, huh?” The question was mumbled, half to herself. 

Everyone had followed her out of the room. Even Stiles was there, unsteadily balancing on his feet. Allison reached out to support Scott, but he walked right past her, like he didn’t notice her arms. It stung.

“What do you mean?” Cody asked, waveringly.

“What do I mean?” Laura’s shoulders tightened. Then she whirled to face them. Her expression was hard, accusatory. “What I _mean_ is that the thing that made us, that killed our entire family? It’s out there and it’s hunting you. All because one of you morons opened the basement.”

Allison’s nails dug into her arms.

Jackson shook his head. “None of us went into the basement. It’s off limits.”

Laura’s left eyebrow rose. “And it’s off limits why?”

Jackson deflated. “The, uh, inspection crew might have opened it.”

“We’re so screwed,” Cody whined, palming his face.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Derek said unhelpfully. “But the only way you’re going to survive is if you work with us. If you work against us, we’ll just feed you to the alpha.” He pushed past them so he was standing with his sister. 

He was built like a wall and acted just like one too—a façade that was only broken when he looked at Stiles. Allison couldn’t help but notice he was avoiding just that. Meanwhile, Stiles was glaring holes through his head.

“The alpha?” Lydia murmured, frowning at new bit of information.

Stiles snorted. “What does that make you, Derek? A delta?”

Derek bristled slightly. “It’s not our language for it, but it fits. The alpha part, at least.” Derek looked at his sister for a moment before saying, “An alpha werewolf is the strongest of us. We’re weak in comparison. Which, of course, makes you ants.”

“Awesome,” Jackson muttered. “Why are you even here? To have a little tea party with the thing that killed your mother?”

Laura smiled with her teeth, not a single shred of kindness in it. “No, jackass. We’re here to kill it.”

“Oh,” Harley said faintly. “Don’t let us stop you then.” She made a grand gesture towards the freed door. Scott was closest to it, leaning heavily against the abandoned piano, shoved off to the side. His expression was strangely blank. 

Meanwhile, Stiles was trying to piece together the whole story. “The alpha killed your family. And then what? Chased you out of town?”

“More or less,” Laura replied. “The alpha fled after everything it did, after the cops arrived. But it came back. It hunted us down and…” Her gaze flickered towards Derek. His eyes were fixed somewhere on Stiles’ collarbone. “It hunted us down and it found us. We thought our uncle-”

“We thought the alpha was dead,” Derek interrupted brusquely. “But then we found out it was just trapped, not dead.” He sighed. “The trap was really good too. Kept it to this area for five years. Until you guys showed up.”

Harley turned to Lydia and muttered, “Am I the only one wondering what it’s been eating?” 

“Itself, mostly,” Derek replied. “Werewolves heal very fast.” 

Allison made a face. Ugh.

“So who was it? The werewolf,” Stiles asked eagerly. “This… alpha. It had to know you guys. It knew your schedule and everything. Was it the mailman? Was it someone in the family? I put my money on creepy Uncle Peter.”

“Stiles,” Laura said warningly.

Stiles ignored her. “Or was it that blond lady with the-“

There was a creaking noise behind them. Allison turned quickly to face it, only to see Scott halfway out of the door.

“Scott?” she asked tentatively.

He froze in the hallway. His shoulders were tense and high up around his ears. 

Stiles crossed the room in three quick, quiet steps. “Dude, get back in here.”

After a beat, Scott turned. Scott turned and _snarled_. His warm eyes had disappeared behind an inhuman gold and his mouth was full of fangs. His forehead was now a series of bumps and ridges. 

But the most terrifying part of it all was the strange vacancy in his eyes.

Derek yanked Stiles back. “There’s a connection between the bitten and their alpha. It’s not him!”

Just then, Scott leapt at them, snarling, claws first.

Yelping in alarm, everyone jumped to the side. Scott spun around, his back to the corner. His hands curled into fists as he let out a long, rolling howl.

Somewhere underneath them, the howl was answered.

“Fight it, Scott!” Laura shouted at him, standing protectively between Scott and his classmates. 

Stiles pulled away from Derek. “Scott, you can do this. You’re not a puppet!”

Scott’s eyes had been darting back and forth, as if he couldn’t figure out a target. The second Stiles stepped forward, though, that stopped. Scott quivered, almost, falling back on all fours. 

Allison knew with a burning clarity why he was looking at his best friend like that. Of all of them, Stiles had the most blood in the air, Stiles was the one who smelled most like prey. 

Stiles looked relieved when Scott pulled back, because it looked like Scott was ready to settle down, sit on the floor. Allison knew better.

Just as Scott lunged at Stiles, arm swinging, Allison tackled him back into the corner. They hit the floor together hard. She shook it off, found his arms, and pressed them to the ground. She would never forget how he looked then—gold eyes hateful, mouth twisted and full of sharp teeth, snapping at her.

Then the floor gave out from underneath them.


	13. Chapter 13

Allison and Scott fell through the third floor, the second, the first, until they finally landed in the basement. Stiles was almost deafened by the sound of crackling wood, the loud bangs of two teens falling.

And a moment after the noise stopped, it was so silent, you could hear a pin drop.

Stiles dropped next to the hole first, ignoring the alarming creak of wood beneath him. He coughed as dust rose and tried to choke him, eyes watering. He squinted through the dust cloud until it settled. Settled just enough for him see Scott plastered out on the floor, with Allison curled on top. 

Stiles sucked in a breath to call out Scott’s name, but then Derek’s hand fell on his shoulder. “Don’t draw attention to them.” 

Because falling three stories was one thing. Attracting the werewolf’s attention to them was quite another.

Stiles shook him off and stood unsteadily, his heart pounding. His vision was narrowing. Air was harder and harder to drag in. “Well, second time’s the charm,” he said with more cheer than he felt. “Let’s make some more rope.” He pushed past people without recognizing their faces.

They had one curtain left, but, hey, the barricade was open. They could go steal blankets and curtains from the other third story rooms. Then they could get down there and-

Derek caught up to Stiles just as Stiles entered the library just adjacent to the nursery. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

The floor was spinning. “I have to get to Scott.” He was sweating but he had never felt colder in his life. His hands were shaky.

In his dazed and disorientated view of the world, Stiles caught a glimpse of Derek. He looked a lot less angry than he sounded. “I’m not going to let you go down. Not like this.” Derek grabbed his wrist. “Stiles-”

Stiles whipped it out of his grip. “No,” he snarled. For a moment, he just breathed heavily at Derek. Betrayal and dread played tetherball with his mind, making it hard to concentrate and find his words. Stiles found them nonetheless. He was nothing without his words. 

“You,” he whispered harshly. “You lost the right to have an opinion after you let me think you died. You lost the right to tell me what to do when you broke the _one_ freaking promise I needed you to keep.”

Stiles didn’t look at Derek. His reasoning for focusing on these murders wasn’t truth or justice or the American way. His reason was singular. Derek. Derek Hale. 

The boy who ran away to save himself and died anyway. 

Derek let out a shaky breath. “Stiles-”

Stiles shook his head. He didn’t want to hear it. The words rushed out of him—water released from a dam. “I thought you were dead, you prick. Then your uncle suddenly disappeared and Cora transferred hospitals—not that I could ever find her again, mind you.” Derek’s mouth opened. Stiles snapped a hand up, stopping him. “And you know what? No. Don’t even talk to me. I have to make sure my best friend isn’t dead.”

Angry—and stronger for it—Stiles walked out of the library, arms full of curtains.

In the common area, everyone else was circling the hole, giving it a wide berth but attracted to it nevertheless.

“He’s dead. There’s no way he survived that,” Cody said quickly. He was panicking and pale. “He’s dead or he broke his back. Either way, he’s dead.”

“Shut up, Cody,” Stiles muttered. His attention moved from Cody over to Lydia.

Lydia was standing slightly behind Jackson. She had her hand over her mouth, tears in her eyes. Jackson had an arm around her shoulders, subdued as he too stared at the hole.

No one expected Allison to survive. Even Stiles, in the back of his head, didn’t think, didn’t dare to hope-

Because Scott fell first, but Scott was a werewolf. Horror movie logic said he’d survive just fine. But Allison, even if she did fall on Scott-

Lydia shrugged off Jackson’s arm like it wasn’t even there. Stiles watched Lydia lower herself gingerly to her knees. 

Suddenly, her eyes narrowed. “Is it just me or did she move?”

Everyone crowded the hole so quickly, they almost had another accident.

-

Scott woke up in a haze of pain and confusion. Blinking dust out of his eyes, he looked around the dark room he was in, barely able to make out shelves on the room. There was a tight, achy feeling in his back and a heavy weight on his chest.

Scott looked down and saw sweet smelling black hair curled over his chest. He breathed it in contently, enjoying it for the five seconds it took for him to realize how creepy he was being. He held his breath then, feeling guilty. And then, suddenly-

“You’re not unconscious.”

Allison’s head shot up. “I was, uh.” Her cheeks were flushed. She tapped his chest once and sat up. She cleared her throat, saying, “Monitoring your heartbeat?”

Scott blinked at her. “Is it okay?” He couldn’t help the smile, the teasing aspect of it. “My- my heartbeat?”

Allison deflated, ruse exposed, but grinned anyway. “Just fine.”

She rolled off of him and got up. She helped him to his feet easily and started dusting herself off. Scott coughed and did the same, looking around.

They were in a dark room with shelves, dust, and broken bits of wood. The only light was above them, filtering weakly through the hole in the ceiling. Uh, floor.

Scott looked up, squinting. “Where are we and how did we get here?”

“Um.” When he looked down again, Allison looked awkward. “We’re in the Hale house and-“

Scott raised a hand to stop her. “Okay, my memory is not that bad.” And, after a beat, his eyes widened. “Oh my God, there’s a werewolf in here.”

“Yeah,” she said quietly, eying him.

It took a minute, but then- “Oh my god, _I’m_ the werewolf in here!”

Allison nodded, wincing. “Remember anything else?”

He scoured his mind until an image came to mind—Stiles’ red wreathed face pulled into a dejected expression. Scott had been so angry. He’d wanted to bite him. He’d wanted to tear him apart.

He’d wanted to tear them all apart.

Scott staggered back until his back hit a shelf. “Stiles,” he whispered, horrified. “Did I-“

“No,” Allison said quickly, stepping towards him. “No, you didn’t.”

Scott shoved his face in his palms, half in grief over what could have been, half in horror for what would be. “Jackson was right, I’m not safe. I shouldn’t be around anyone. I shouldn’t be around you.” Scott walked off in search of the exit. He had to get away from her.

Allison caught his elbow. “Hey, you’re not going anywhere, okay.”

“You’re not _safe_ ,” Scott protested. “I can’t protect you from myself.”

Allison’s grip tightened almost painfully. “Hey, I can protect myself.” When he finally looked at her again, her hand slid down his arm. It didn’t stop until their fingers were tangled together tightly. “In case you forgot, I knocked you down. I knocked you down so hard, you went through three floors.” Allison tipped her chin up, shooting Scott a wavering smile. “I’m pretty badass.”

“You are,” Scott agreed warmly. The tension in her face disappeared. 

Before he could say anything else, a makeshift rope dropped down between them.

-

Allison looked up, squinting through the hole. Lydia waved happily and made exaggerated gestures at the rope. She mimed grabbing it and exerting effort to climb it, like the presence of the rope alone wasn’t hint enough about what they should do.

Releasing her hand, Scott turned his attention to the rope. He tugged lightly at it before passing it from palm to palm. He raised both eyebrows at her when she made a face at him.

She reached out, touching it. “This again, really?” she sighed. “Can’t we just…”

“We shouldn’t move around in the basement too much,” Scott said apologetically. He hunched a shoulder at the shadows around them. “The alpha was down here, once. Who knows what it left behind?” Or if it returned, he didn’t say. 

Allison nodded, hair on the back of her neck rising as she looked at the shadows all around them.

Scott tested the rope from his end, pulling on it harder and letting his weight swing an inch from the ground. The rope held. There was no reason not to take it up all the way to the third floor hiding spot, but the last thing anyone wanted was to fall all the way back down.

While Scott tested the knots closest to them, Allison did a tight circuit of the room, trying to find a light switch. She could feel air coming at her from different directions. This was disturbing to her, considering the fact that, when she imagined coming in here, the air was always stagnant. Stale. Unmoving.

Allison paused by a set of popped chain links, swallowing slightly. Her eyes moved beyond it, images sharpening and becoming more defined the longer she stood in the dark. Soon enough, she could see as clearly in the shadows as she could see in the day.

“This should be fine,” Scott concluded from behind her. “Are you coming?”

She ignored him. In her vision, a dark blur focused and sharpened into the image of long, curly hair, dulled by dust. Several feet away, there was a lump, a letterman jacket, fabric done in BHHS red.

Allison backed up, stepping into the light.

Everyone who was missing was dead. This was a fact. 

From behind her, Scott touched her shoulder. “You okay?”

Allison flinched at his hand. And then, slowly, she turned, looking into Scott’s concerned eyes. After a beat, she forced a smile. There was no reason for Scott to see Rodriguez and Jessica.

“I’ll be better once we’re out of here,” she promised.

Allison went first on the rope. She was never good at climbing rope in gym class. The rock wall? Piece of cake. The rope, though, always stumped her. The feeling that she was mere seconds from slipping, from ripping up her hands and knees before slamming hard on the floor was something that always made her hang back, made her not want to try at all. Better to try and fail at the bottom two feet than at the top three. Shorter fall, that.

She didn’t exactly have a choice here, but whoever tied this rope tied it with gigantic, firm knots, even in the middle of each material. Allison felt a lot better with something solid to put under her feet.

Getting to the first floor was okay. The hole went through one of the side rooms—a den. If she remembered correctly, they had filmed a scene here. God, that seemed like years and years ago.

Allison got off the rope and stepped away from the hole. She had half a mind to scout around and look for their phones, but then something loud creaked behind her. She spun around and dropped to a crouch, seeking out the origin of the noise. Her hands felt raw where she pressed them to the ground. 

Scott climbed up too, pulling himself up through the hole. “Should we-“

She shoved the rope at him. “No. Keep going.”

They stared at each other for a moment before Scott nodded and started climbing again. It took him five minutes to reach the second floor and pull up. She watched warily as his sneakers swung up and out of sight. 

Allison took a deep breath and grabbed the rope. She cast a suspicious glance around her surroundings before following him to the second floor. 

The hole here went through a wide, open hallway that stretched in three directions. Talia’s office—and the almost hidden set of stairs to the third floor—was on the opposite side of the house. Of course.

Scott pulled her up the last foot until they were both kneeling on the second floor, panting softly in each other’s ears. Allison could feel Scott’s rapid heartbeat in her bones. 

He looked up. She followed his gaze, seeing Lydia and Laura Hale looking down at them through the last hole.

Lydia was grinning brightly, flushed with happiness and relief, but Laura was frowning. She had her head cocked to the side, like she was listening to something. Then, abruptly, she was elbowing Lydia out of the way and sticking her head through the hole, looking at what had previously been blocked to her vision.

Laura’s eyes gleamed gold and she let out a low, furious snarl.

It was answered with a warning rumble just behind Allison. Scott and Allison both jerked, almost falling into the hole in their haste to see what was behind them. 

The alpha was watching them through the doorway, fur bristling and crouched on all fours. It looked like a mix of a nightmare gargoyle just ready to pounce and a bored cat at play with a trapped mouse. 

“Oh crap,” Scott whispered.

Above them, Laura shouted at them to run, to find her room, to look outside. Allison could barely think, she was so afraid. She froze on the floor, knees biting into the wood. She could smell the blood on the werewolf, the old meat, the sheer menace of it-

Allison was yanked to her feet and thrown—literally thrown—across the hole in the floor. That was when years of gymnastics and self-defense classes kicked in. She rolled when she hit the ground and quickly got to her feet. She turned just in time to watch Scott jump the five foot expanse, land on his feet, then his knees, before he got to his feet in a labored lurch. His eyes were a panicked gold. He closed the distance between the two of them and grabbed her hand, dragging her along.

The werewolf followed them. 

Allison turned her head, watching it as it skidded through the doorway and across the floor. It misjudged the weakness of the floor before its jump. The hole widened underneath it and it fell, snapping its jaw at the rope. But the people upstairs learned from their last mistake and let it go, so down and down it went with the rope. Down and down and back into the basement, where it belonged.

Then Scott and Allison were rounding a corner. It sounded like thunder upstairs, with the foot stomps and yelling.

Then Scott was ripping open a door and shoving her inside. He closed the door behind them and started pulling the dresser in front of it. The thing was old and wooden and heavy, but he moved it like it was made of air.

Allison paused in the middle of the room, looking around. It was a bedroom. Clearly a girl’s bedroom—a woman’s rather, judging by the stack of college text books on the dusty desk. 

“You knew this was Laura’s room.”

Scott froze. “I just- it just-“ He looked so lost. 

“It smells like her in here,” Allison concluded.

Scott looked relieved. “Yes!”

Allison jerked out of her reverie and went to the window. She opened it up, shivering at the blast of cold air. She saw nothing. There was-

“Allison!” 

She looked up. Stiles was poking his head out of the window just above her. He reached out, gave something wooden next to him a good shake- oh. A lattice. Something they could climb.

“Scott!” Allison called, looking back. Scott had just finished shoved the bookshelf in front of the dresser. When he looked up at her, his eyes were gleaming gold in the darkness. 

Allison reached a hand out to him. “We have to climb!”

-

Scott had never felt so scared before in his entire life. He’d also never felt so alive before, so aware of everything around him. But he wasn’t enjoying this. He would never enjoy pain and terror. The idea that a misstep on his part could lead to his, Allison’s, or both of their deaths was horrifying.

No, he didn’t enjoy this. He _hated_ this. 

He had to climb the lattice. He waited and watched as Allison crawled up the last couple of feet and through the window, pulled to safety by Jackson and Stiles.

Then, swallowing once, Scott started to climb. The foot holes were small and slippery, made even smaller and slipperier by years of ivy growing and threading through them. Adrenaline pumping, heart stuttering, he nevertheless just focused on the wood in front of him, and his inevitable inch upwards.

Then the alpha ran outside on the lawn. Scott made the mistake of looking down and slipped. He clung to the lattice frame, trying to stop himself from falling and only distantly aware of the cries of alarm just above him. 

The alpha howled. Something in Scott’s hands went numb, opening up his fingers. With a heavy lurch of dread, he started slipping down. 

Then Laura stuck her head out of the window. She had a twisted expression of terror and hatred. Then her face literally twisted. Fangs poking out, forehead bulging slightly, eyes a startling yellow, she roared right back at the alpha. Laura’s challenging roar had no duality of tone, no amplification, but was angry and defiant never the less. 

Scott found strength in his hands again and started climbing back up—faster this time. He was shaking and trembling-

Wait, no. That wasn’t him. Scott looked down.

The alpha was at the bottom of the lattice now, three stories down. It was ripping it off, foot by foot. Scott lost his footing at a particularly vicious wrench. He found it again and made an awkward leap towards the third story window. 

He missed, having jumped too far out. He felt a rush of déjà vu, of falling, falling, falling… 

Laura caught him by his wrist. He ended up swinging and hitting the side of the house hard, but she did not let go of him. After a beat, she pulled him up, grabbing his waistband with her free hand when he was high enough and nearly hurled him inside. Allison had her arms wrapped around Laura’s waist, steadying her. Everyone else had been steadying Allison.

Once he was past the square, everyone collapsed to the floor. In the pile, Allison was sitting on Stiles and Isaac, Scott in her lap, while Laura was sprawled awkwardly over Harley, Derek, and a red faced Cody. Only Lydia and Jackson managed to stay standing.

There was a long, rolling howl outside. It sounded like thwarted anger, Scott thought.

Scott got to his knees and crawled to the window. He looked out just as the werewolf threw the lattice to the side in a temper. Then its head abruptly jerked to the side, ears perking up slightly. It stood there, still but for some fur ruffling in the wind. 

Then it dropped to all fours and ran off, all interest in them gone.

Cody huffed out a sigh. “What’s he running off to?”

-

Boyd’s feet hit the ground. He landed unsteadily, wide eyes looking back and forth—and for good reason too.

The thrashing noise of wood being torn apart? It was gone.

Swearing, Erica grabbed his hand and started to run.

They ran into the woods.


	14. Chapter 14

Hand in hand, they ran. They had squeezed out through the small laundry room window, the only unblocked window on the first story of the house.

There was a choking, harrowing moment when Boyd couldn’t get his shoulders out. Teething gritting together, he mumbled something disparaging about a round peg trying to squeeze out of a square hole. Erica pinched his ear in retaliation. 

Then Boyd’s shoulders finally popped free and he was out. The second he hit earth, they ran and they ran fast, knowing there was only a few windows of opportunity when the werewolf was… occupied.

Erica felt triumphant as they hit the tree line. But that was the last good feeling she would have on their escape, as a long howl sounded just behind them.

They ran faster. 

Erica had long legs, but Boyd had longer ones. As fast as she tried to go, he was going faster. She was just slowing him down. 

She heard the sound of something slamming through the bushes. Erica looked behind her to see the floating red eyes in the darkness.

Then there was a tree. They had to part then, or fall. And Erica was glad, because, because… she was slower. Boyd had sisters still and a mom who gave a shit about him, past tragedy or not. Erica’s dad was friendly, but perpetually absent and her mom was fucking bored. Erica was an only child and she was so angry all the time. She liked Stiles the most in the world, but she couldn’t help her desire to want to sink her claws in him, to rip and tear, because, as much as she liked him, she _hated_ him too.

She was venomous. Her brain was broken. And, thank god, she was _slower_. Boyd would live.

Erica slowed down to a jog, accepting her fate. And then-

And then Boyd screamed. 

Her resignation fled her. It hadn’t gone for the slower runner, it hadn’t gone for the weaker prey, it-

“Boyd?” Her voice was shrill in the darkness. Cold rushed against her face, but didn’t touch her. 

The werewolf went after Boyd.

After a beat, he screamed again. Her instincts screamed at her to run run run, and she did. 

She ran and she ran-

She ran towards the screams. There was a huge hulking mass of fur and nightmares pinning her friend, pinning him so his chest was on the floor, and there was so… so much blood…

Terror turned to grief and rage. She charged the werewolf, jumping on its back. She tangled one hand in the fur between its ears and _yanked_. She screamed wordlessly at it, trying to choke it out with her other arm. It stood with her on it, rearing back and trying to shake her off.

She clung harder, choked harder, yanked harder, still screaming at it, because…

Because Boyd was dead. Oh god, he was dead, wasn’t he?

Erica sobbed breathlessly. He was her one friend, her only friend, the only person in the world to think of her when there was literally a monster in the house. And he was dead.

Finally, the werewolf threw her off. Erica hit the ground hard and tried to roll away. Stars danced through her vision. 

The werewolf stalked over to her, prowling, baring its bloodied teeth.

Erica scrambled backwards, crab-like, but it grabbed her leg and dragged her closer, claws digging past skin and into muscle. Erica cried out and crossed her arms over herself just as the werewolf reared back and bit down. 

Through the screaming and blood and pain, Erica was aware of the second the werewolf’s teeth hit her bones, just as she was aware of the second that, under the pressure, her forearms creaked and _broke_.

And, through the haze, she heard a single gunshot.

There was a pained whine. Then the weight of the werewolf came off of her. Erica panted at the night sky, hearing it tear off into the trees, running away, still whining. She heard the sound of leaves rubbed against earth and rolled her head to see what it was.

And Boyd… 

Boyd was still alive, somehow. He was crawling on his stomach towards her. His back was torn up—torn up like her leg, torn up like her sides. She whimpered at him, too much in pain to touch him, even when he got close. Boyd seemed to know that, hesitating just next to her before gently shifting to his side, just close enough for their foreheads to touch. His hand hovered over her stomach before resting gently on her hip.

Erica smiled shakily at him, her skin feeling abruptly cool. She wondered if this was what shock was. She edged closer to him, pressed their foreheads together tighter and waited to die.

Three minutes later, someone stood over her and none too gently kicked her thigh. She cracked an eye open.

“Don’t be so dramatic. You’re not dead.” The stranger tipped his head back, letting the moonlight light up his face. He was an adult—mid-thirties, maybe. He was well dressed and good looking. The lighting betrayed the sparse beginnings of a beard around his chin. 

His smile was warm. His eyes, sharp and blue, were not. 

“Well, not yet, anyway.” 

-

They were all piled into the third floor common area again. The barricade was back up and reinforced. For all their swagger and proclamations of werewolfly competence, neither Derek nor Laura seemed all that ready to deal with the werewolf. The alpha werewolf.

Anyway, his point was that they both seemed trapped in the inertia of people waiting for backup. Which was just typical. Derek always had the worst plans, but Stiles had a little more hope for Laura. She was supposed to be the smart one of the family.

“What was that?” Jackson said for the third time in as many minutes. Everyone had different ways of dealing with fear. Jackson dealt with his by being obnoxious.

“A gunshot,” Harley said flatly, eyebrows lowered dangerously. Harley dealt with hers by being angry.

“I know it was a gunshot!” Jackson snapped.

Lydia turned to Stiles, eyebrows raised. “We have deer hunters around here, don’t we?” Lydia, of course—darling, perfect Lydia—dealt with her fear by being logical, by inserting reason where there was none.

“Deer hunting season is over,” Stiles replied. “Besides, they’re only allowed to hunt with archery equipment out here. Not a gun.”

“It was a rifle,” Derek said quietly. “The sound, anyway.” 

Stiles scowled at him. How dare he remind Stiles of his existence. As if reading his mind, Derek tipped his chin up slightly, challengingly. This, of course, only made Stiles scowl harder at him.

Okay, so maybe it looked like Stiles dealt with his fear by being petulant, but, hey. This was a complicated situation here, him and Derek. There were layers. Unfinished business. Unsettled feelings.

Confusing feelings. Frustrating feelings. Arousing feelings.

It was hard to be angry at Derek when his libido tapped on his bastard lizard brain to remind him that, under normal circumstance, Stiles would be trying to climb him like a tree. 

It just wasn’t freaking _fair_. Derek used to have acne. Derek’s voice used to crack. Derek used to have a pig snort laugh, the most unattractive of laughs. Now he was, like, male model pretty. It sucked.

Laura sat down next to Stiles with a sigh. After a beat, she kicked Stiles’ heel. “Jesus Christ, Hansel, stop sulking at him,” she muttered. 

Derek determinedly looked away, gaze shifting over Cody, who looked like he was having an existential crisis, and Isaac, who looked like he wanted to become one with the wall. Finally, his focus fell on Scott and Allison where they were sitting on the floor. His eyebrows crunched together, like he didn’t know what to make of their entwined arms, like he didn’t know how to process Allison’s head on Scott’s shoulder.

Stiles bristled with indignation over it all. How dare he judge them.

Laura kicked his heel again. “You know, you’re probably going to be dead by the end of tonight. Or he is. Do you really want this to be the way things end between you?”

Stiles shifted his glare to her. That was… rude. She snorted, unimpressed with him, before pushing herself up and walking over to her brother. Derek turned to her like a flower turns to the sun, but there was something guarded about it, like he was expecting to be slapped down.

Stiles was sad suddenly.

“She’s right, you know,” Lydia said to his left. She was leaning against the wall, twirling a long strand of her hair between her fingers.

“Don’t even pick a side.”

Lydia ignored him. “During middle school and high school, you were always that weird hyper guy who knew everything there was to know about the Hale House Murders. That was your thing. And it was freaking _creepy_. You made everyone think you were a budding psychopath. Did you know that?” Stiles snorted. “But all this time, you stuck to this. This was what was important to you. You needed to figure out the truth.”

He looked up at her. “Lydia, don’t.”

“You needed to figure out the truth because he was your friend and you cared for him. And you thought he died.” Lydia looked down at him. She gestured across the room. “But look, here he is. Are you really going to sit there and nurse your hurt feelings all night?” 

Stiles stared at her for a long moment before letting out a low, bitter laugh. “Wow, Lydia. You’re a lot of things, but I never thought you were a hypocrite.” He let his eyes move to Jackson. 

Lydia followed his gaze. She blushed darkly at the implication, her temper rising. She pushed away from the wall. “Fine,” she said and walked away. “Die alone for all I care.”

Stiles wanted to feel triumphant. He wanted to feel some kind of victory in knocking her off her high horse. But, instead, all he could feel was cold, lonely and mean spirited. He didn’t want to sit alone. He looked around the room. He supposed he could move next to Scott and cuddle with him, but Scott needed his time alone with Allison right now. Scott was taking the whole ‘puppet of a monster’ thing worse than actually turning into one, and with good reason.

Stiles tensed up and shoved his hands in his jeans, trying to warm up, but there wasn’t a whole lot of room in his right pocket. He shoved his hand in with some difficulty, then pulled out Greenberg’s cell. 

The room was suddenly tense and silent. Everyone’s eyes were on him.

Swallowing, Stiles flipped it open. Still no coverage. Cheap son of a _bitch_.

There was a sigh of disappointment as he slammed it shut. It made him uncomfortable, knowing that he did all he did, had all that expectation placed on his shoulders, only to fail to deliver on his promise in the end.

Stiles’ eyes flicked up to Laura. “Hey, any of you have better cell phones?”

Laura shifted slightly. “Yeah. We both do.” She palmed her back pocket, then shot her brother a look when he just tensed. “Derek.”

“I.” Derek looked constipated. “May have left mine at the hotel.” Derek avoided everyone’s gaze.

Laura just shook her head. “So much fail, little brother. So much fail.” She pulled out her own, making a face at the screen. “And my battery’s low. For fuck’s sake.”

“Are you kidding me?” Harley mumbled, crossing her arms tighter over her chest.

Laura waved a hand at her. “Keep your pants on. I still have enough juice to make a couple of calls.”

“So call 911 already,” Jackson snapped.

Laura rolled her eyes at him. “Please. The cops aren’t going to help with this. They wouldn’t even know where to start.” She started dialing. “Excuse me while I call some real backup.” 

“You already called him three times,” Derek said in an undertone.

“Don’t push me, Derek!” Laura snapped. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and put her cell to her ear. She smiled widely, fakely, and said, “Hi, asshole. You better have a damn good reason for twiddling your thumbs right now, or so help me god…” She walked to the furthest corner of the room, still talking.

Meanwhile, Derek was left in the middle of a crowd of teenagers. Laura was definitely the more intimidating of the two.

Jackson stepped in front of Derek, his best unimpressed look on display. “So. What are you hiding up here for? Go do the thing. Go kill the werewolf.”

After a beat, Derek looked away. “I can’t do it alone.”

Jackson shrugged. “Why not?”

Derek shot him an irritated look. “What part of _an alpha is really powerful_ don’t you understand?”

Jackson smiled widely and bitterly. “So you’re just a coward, then. Good to know.” 

Derek’s face turned blank. He pulled away from the wall and straightened to his full height. He’d grown since he was a teenager, both up and out. Laura might have been the more intimidating one, the one who more freely displayed her wolf, but Derek was muscle built on muscle. He didn’t need to show off his inner werewolf to beat the crap out of Jackson. 

And Jackson understood that. He dealt in power displays and aggressive body language all the time, so he couldn’t possibly miss that he’d stepped over a line. He blanched and took a step back, then another when Derek continued to stare at him coolly.

If Stiles cheered a little bit in his head, that was between him and his maker.

Scott’s voice rose from the floor. “How did you guys sneak past the alpha in the first place?”

After a moment, Derek turned his attention towards Scott. “The alpha is a little stir crazy. Being locked up for a few years is bound to do that to you.”

“What does that mean?” Allison asked softly. She lifted her head from Scott’s shoulder, but didn’t let go of his hand. Stiles knew that look on Scott’s face—it was relief.

“The alpha isn’t really all that focused right now,” Derek explained. “Running from noise to noise, from distraction to distraction-”

“So just like Stiles, then,” Jackson quipped. 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “So what happens when that wears off?” 

For a moment, Stiles thought that Derek was going to ignore him, or answer and not look at him. But then Derek was sighing and looking straight at him. Derek’s eyes were just as strange and pretty as Stiles remembered. 

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I just don’t know.”

-

Scott hated this—the sitting around, the waiting. The way everyone watched the barricades with a resigned, fearful expression, as if expecting the werewolf to bust in at any moment.

If there was anything he hated more, it was the looks that got sent in his direction more than once. The assessing gazes, looking to see if he was under someone’s control. The paranoid glances, like he was going to snap and jump on someone at any moment. Even Stiles gave him the look every once in a while.

The only people who hadn’t were Allison and the Hale siblings. Scott frowned. If they didn’t act soon, then it was only a matter of time before that changed too—and for good reasons.

Laura stopped glaring at her phone and popped up from the wall, suddenly alert. She had stiffened, like she was listening to something outside. Derek had the same look on his face too, the same tenseness.

Then Laura let out a huge, shaky breath, pivoting towards the group. “The alpha’s outside,” she said hurried. “In the woods. Now is the time to talk strategy, people.”

Isaac lifted his head to shoot her a baleful stare. “Strategy? What strategy is there when you’re dealing with a _freaking werewolf_?” 

Stiles, on the other hand, shrugged. “Well, first, we can stop it from surprising us and popping up out of nowhere if we seal off the basement somehow.” He swung his attention to Laura, eyebrows high on his head.

After a moment, she nodded in agreement.

“Wait, what’s wrong with the basement?” Allison asked. Her hand tightened slightly on Scott’s.

Laura walked over to the window. “It’s actually very large and extends in several directions.” She licked her finger and drew on the glass. She started with a large square. “Here’s the general basement, and here’s the tunnels.” She drew three tunnels, one extending north, one extending west, and the other extending south for half the way before making a break to the right. “There are four exits. Two of them are on the farther ends of the property.” She put an X over the end of the north and west tunnels. “Then there’s one inside, the basement entrance. Then the last is in the shed.” She drew an X over the large central square before darting down and putting an X on the end of the bent tunnel.

Cody approached her, peering at the drawing over her shoulder. “Why do you guys have such a big basement?”

“When we bought the house, it was already like that,” she said with an air of someone who had to field this question more than once. “And, no, we’re not part of the mafia.”

Cody looked disappointed at that.

Derek cleared his throat. “We brought something that might help. It’s the only thing we know of that works against werewolves.” He reached for the long abandoned backpack by the barricaded door. He crouched down, unzipped it, and pulled out a long cylinder wrapped in fabric. With a deep sigh, he unraveled it and set it very carefully on the floor between them.

It was a large glass jar full of a fine black substance.

“Mountain ash,” Derek said, looking up. “If you spread it across an entrance, a werewolf can’t pass.”

Cody stepped forward, making grabby hands at it, and then said, accusingly, “Dude, we could have added this to the barricade.”

But Derek just shook his head. “It’s not perfect. It’s not going to stop a motivated werewolf. It would have charged through the wall or came through the window. Or the attic. Or the floor.”

At his words, everyone looked all around them with heightened paranoia. Derek didn’t seem to notice.

“But if we trap it underground,” Laura said, “it will have no choice but try and dig its way out. And, while it’s stronger than us, it’s way weaker than it should have been. It’s been down there for too long.” She tipped her chin up at the jaw in Cody’s hands. “It should buy us some time to figure out how to kill it.”

“Wait, you want to trap it?” Stiles shook his head. “I was just suggesting closing off the basement. Trapping it is _way_ harder.” After a beat, he turned to Laura fully, interested. “What do you have in mind?”

Laura ducked her head with a grin. “Well-“

“Wait,” Lydia interrupted, eyeing the mountain ash. “What’s the point of bringing a weapon you can’t use? Unless…” She shifted her focus to Laura and Derek. “You knew we’d be here.”

“We were warned,” Derek admitted. “We hurried back here as fast as we could. We were hoping to find at least one of you here and still alive.”

“The alpha is notorious for playing with its food,” Laura said venomously. Derek’s shoulders buckled slightly at that, but when Scott tried to look at his face, all he saw was a stoic blankness.

“So it repels werewolves?” Scott asked, approaching Cody. “What about me?”

“You’re not completely turned yet,” Derek replied. “You might still be able to handle it.”

Cody lifted the lid, then his eyebrows. He gestured at Scott with the jar. 

Scott froze. Then, unthawing, he reached out, sticking his hand in the jar. The mountain ash felt powdery and benign, and yet-

Scott pull his hand out. “It’s itchy,” he said. “I don’t want to touch it.”

“It’s just starting to affect you,” Laura told him. Scott’s spirits fell. He was really a werewolf then, huh. “Here’s what I’m thinking. While the alpha is distracted in the woods, Derek and I will go with one of you to each of the outer entrances. You’ll need to lay down the line for us.” She cast a look over the group, as if seeking volunteers. “We’ll be your eyes and ears. The second we hear the alpha moving towards us, we’ll tell you to run back to the house.”

“We’ll cover for you,” Derek promised. And, of everything he’d said that day, that seemed the most genuine.

Scott sighed, then nodded. “I’ll go.”

“Me too,” Jackson piped up immediately. “If McCall can do it, I can do it better.”

“It’s not a competition, Jackson,” Allison chided him.

Jackson scoffed at that. “Everything’s a competition.”

They pulled down the barricade again. At first, it was just going to be the Hale siblings, Jackson, and Scott, but everyone unanimously agreed to go down to the first floor. Scott understood why. It’d been a while since dinner. More than one stomach growled, pining for the cold pizza in the kitchen.

While the others raided the kitchen, Stiles tiptoed down the basement steps with a handful of mountain ash. Scott watched from above, heart pounding, even when Laura reassured him that the alpha was still outside. Stiles quickly closed the basement door and set down a line at the bottom of the door.

He ran back up the stairs with a gleeful expression and high fived Scott.

It didn’t hurt, exactly, but the tingling sensation he got from Stiles’ mountain ash covered hand was a sign that he needed to do his own exit quickly. His immunity to the mountain ash was quickly wearing off. 

The four of them got out through the second floor, using Stiles’ jeep as a ladder. Scott dropped the last five feet with a thump. His portion of the mountain ash, tucked into a pouch made out of Stiles’ shirt, felt like a lead weight in his pocket. Across from him, Jackson absently touched his pouch too, making sure it survived the jump down.

They all looked at each other for a moment before splitting off into pairs, taking off into a jog towards their targets.

Scott got paired with Derek. He still wasn’t sure what to feel about the guy. Scott wasn’t in Beacon Hills when Derek was still around. All he knew of Derek was from Stiles. He’d gotten the feeling that, to Stiles, Derek was a weird combination of a big brother, early crush, and a superhero who’d risen to almost martyr status when he allegedly died. 

Now that Derek was there, now that Scott knew he was alive, it was like he was just a…

Just a _dick_.

A dick who kept looking behind him at Scott, like he was expecting Scott to do something. “Why are you keeping such a close eye on me?”

Derek didn’t answer right away. When he did, his sentences were punctuated by even breaths. “When you turned on your friends and tried to let in the alpha, that wasn’t you.”

“Well, no duh. I would never-”

“You would,” Derek corrected. “Maybe. If you lost your temper, you could easily hurt someone. But at that moment?” He stopped and turned to Scott. “You have a mystical connection to the alpha.” Scott stopped too, sickened. Derek’s gaze was cool and detached as he looked Scott up and down. 

Finally, Derek snorted and continued. “You’re a puppet on strings. You could turn on us at any moment.”

Scott blinked rapidly. “Oh.”

Derek’s face fell. He took a step forward, grabbing Scott’s shoulders gently. “What I mean,” he said, “is if you stay strong and listen to us, Laura and I can teach you how to resist. How to be your own person again.” He looked up, assessing the trees, the ups and down of the uneven ground. He let go of Scott. “Here it is.”

Scott followed him another twenty feet before Derek came to a stop and looked at him expectantly. 

“Okay.” Scott trudged around, trying to find it. He had to drop down into a tiny creek and turn around before he could see it. The exit was covered by heavy iron grating secured shut by shiny, new bolts. The bottom had been bent out somehow. Whoever had trapped the alpha had probably mountain ashed the whole inner room, but… motivated werewolves, huh?

Scott dropped to his knees and laid down a shaky line, just inside the gate. Then he bounced up, tucking the fabric in his back pocket. “Ready to go?” 

Derek seemed distracted. “The alpha still hasn’t moved.”

Scott brushed the mountain ash off on his jeans. “Is there any hope that the gunshot mortally injured it?”

“Not really,” Derek replied.

They started heading back to the house.


	15. Chapter 15

Allison still couldn’t find all their phones, but most of their stuff was relatively intact. Cody hoarded the pizza. Harley guzzled down soda like she was crazy. Lydia slung her large pink handbag over her shoulder with a slightly manic expression. Allison left them to it.

Meanwhile, Isaac poured out the remaining mountain ash on a table in the living room and was carefully dividing it up into piles. Stiles was ripping up the rest of his plaid shirt for storage space, which just left him in his white t-shirt. Once assured of her possession of the purse, Lydia calmed down enough to help them, using a folded up piece of paper to slide the powder onto each square of fabric before tying it off with a wire salvaged from a power cord.

Everyone was quick to claim their fair share of mountain ash. Allison was last. With a smile, Lydia nudged her pouch towards her, lingering with Allison when Isaac and Stiles just drifted back to the kitchen.

Smiling back at her, Allison reached out to take her share and…

She couldn’t. She couldn’t- 

She couldn’t wrap her fingers around it. There was resistance there—and a lot of it. It made her think of magnets, of an elementary school science experiment built up around trying to push two like forces together, and failing. But the ash wasn’t a magnet and neither was she. The fact that she couldn’t touch it was, to say the least, alarming.

Allison slowly pulled her hand away.

Lydia frowned at her. “Allison, what’s wrong?”

“I just…” Allison swallowed once and took a step back. “Someone else should take my bundle.”

“Uh, why?” Lydia narrowed her eyes at her, then shook the little pouch. “In case you forgot, this is the only known deterrent against werewolves.” Lydia shoved the mountain ash in her direction again.

Allison backed up a step, unwillingly. “All the more reason why someone else should take it.” 

Lydia snorted, her temper rising. “Wow, okay.” She put the pouch back on the table and turned back to Allison, arms crossed over her chest. “You know, I heard your little talk with Stiles about fault and responsibility. Do you need an intervention? You know how I feel about self sacrifice. I will intervene my freaking-“

And Allison just snapped. “Lydia, _take the goddamn mountain ash,_ ” she growled.

As soon as it passed out of her mouth, she regretted it and looked away. When she regained the courage to look back, Lydia was still staring at her, frozen, her eyes huge and terrified.

Allison continued unsteadily, her voice wobbling, and said, “If you need to make a, I don’t know, a protective circle around yourself, you’re going to need more than one.”

“Allison,” Lydia said slowly, drawing her name out. She had the look of someone who was unwraveling a mystery and trying to identify all the unknown variables. “Were you hurt? I mean, I know you fell, but… did you get bit? Scratched? Marked up?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did the alpha touch you? Like, at all?” Lydia frowned in renewed confusion when Allison just shook her head.

“Why does that matter?” Allison asked, voice hushed.

The question seemed to jar Lydia out of her thoughts. And then, before Allison could react, Lydia’s arms were around her, squeezing hard and with feeling. She smelled sweat and dust, but also her perfume and the shampoo she liked. She was also warm and strangely kind.

Lydia’s arms tightened around her. “I think you have a fundamental misunderstanding about how much I care about you. How much I need for you to survive this with me.” After a moment, Lydia let go, rubbing at her eyes with the heel of her palm. “You better be in that circle with me.”

She took the last bundle of mountain ash and shoved it into her purse. 

-

Derek held up a hand. “Wait a minute.”

Puffing slightly, Scott came to a stop right behind him, walking in a half circle around Derek to see what he was looking at. After a moment, Derek crouched, rubbing some dirt between his fingers. 

“What is it?” Scott asked.

“Black blood.” Derek’s nostrils flared. “And gunpowder.”

This was where the alpha was shot then. Scott looked around and then did a double take, seeing a small shred of fabric on the ground. He bent down and picked it up. There was thickly coagulated blood on it. 

The alpha must have attacked whoever shot him. Scott’s heart squeezed in sympathy. Poor guy. 

Scott turned toward Derek. “Hey, does silver work against you guys?”

“No, don’t be stupid,” Derek said gruffly. He stood, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Falls, fire, torture, starvation. We still don’t know what can kill us.”

“You don’t?”

Derek glared at him and said, sarcastically, “No, otherwise the alpha would have been dead _five years ago_.” Derek looked away, hostility draining from his face. “And we wouldn’t have had to run.”

Scott had the feeling he wasn’t supposed to hear that. “Has anyone thought about weaponizing mountain ash?”

Derek shook his head. “It’s a passive defense. More of a moat than a cannon.”

“What if someone inhaled it? Or ate it or was attacked by something covered with it?”

“The healing would force the mountain ash out, but it wouldn’t kill us.” Derek shrugged a shoulder and then said, like it was a concession, “It might weaken us a little.”

Us, huh. Scott was just starting to get used that _us_ didn’t mean Derek and Laura and the monster killing everyone. Scott was in that category too. Like it or not, he and Derek were the same species now, turned by the same creature, even. Hey, didn’t that sorta make them brothers?

Ugh. Scott did _not_ like the idea of that. Scott had brothers—half-brothers, anyway. And they were _dicks_.

Scott rubbed a hand over the back of his head and, searching for something to say not related to werewolves, he blurted out, “What’s with you and Stiles?”

“That’s none of your business.” Derek started walking back to the house again.

Scott scowled at the back of his head. “He’s my best friend. He loved you.”

“Still none of your business.”

Scott followed him doggedly. “He was really worried about you, dude. He was convinced you were dead and that whatever killed your family got you. He was inconsolable, he cried for days. His dad pulled him out of school for a while and-”

Derek whirled on him suddenly, eyes golden and teeth too long. “Shut. _Up._ ”

Then he started walking again. Scott rolled his eyes up to the sky, irritated. Just when he thought he almost understood Derek, Derek had to go be a dick again. 

Derek didn’t speak again until the house was in sight. The topic surprised Scott—and Derek too, judging by the way he talked like each word was being yanked out of him. 

“We kept in touch. I was never sure that we’d have internet, so I mostly sent him postcards. I’d give him an address when I felt we were safe for a while, a phone number when I knew we weren’t.” Scott watched his hands curl into fists. “I depended on him way too much for that… that sense of normalcy. That false sense of safety.” Derek turned then, facing Scott. He had on a tight, bitter smile. “And then, one day, the alpha approached me in broad daylight. Out of the blue.”

Scott was shocked. “In human form?” It had one? Derek nodded. “What happened?”

“The alpha had intercepted my mail,” Derek bit out, rolling his neck slightly. “Had his address, had his scent, had his picture. The alpha told me that either I left willingly or-” Derek stopped, staring at the space between them resentfully.

Scott connected the dots. “Or it would come back to Beacon Hills. It would come for Stiles.”

Derek’s eyes closed. He took in a deep breath, then opened them, saying, “It took my sister six months to find me. After she found me, well… we handled the alpha. Or so I thought.” Derek shook his head. “Laura and I weren’t directly involved. My family—or what’s left of it. We thought they handled it. We thought it was dead.” Derek made solid eye contact then. “I swear to god, Scott, we thought it was dead.”

“Until now,” Scott said.

“Until now,” Derek agreed. “I stopped talking to Cze- _Stiles_ after that. I wasn’t even in town and I still managed to put a target on his back.” Derek stepped back and away from Scott, his expression the look of a man who’d accepted facts. “He can go ahead and hate me all he wants. I may have kept him in the dark, I may have pushed him out, but I definitely saved his life.”

Scott made a face at that. “Yeah, but… did you?” He gestured to the house. “Did you really?”

Derek didn’t seem to know what to say to that.

-

Laura helped Derek and Scott back up and through the second story window—but not without mocking them, of course. Laura and Jackson had gotten back a good ten minutes earlier.

“We got distracted. We found something out there,” Scott told her. “We need to tell the others.”

Stiles looked at Derek immediately. Derek avoided his gaze and walked back into the dining room.

It was there that everyone gathered. Stiles stared at the huge dent in the wall where the table was slammed in one, furious push. He couldn’t help but think there were better rooms in the house than this—this place where the alpha ambushed them once already.

No one died in here, at least. That was something.

Stiles crossed his arms over his chest as the last person entered the room. His gaze shifted from the wall to Derek, expecting Derek to say something, but Derek was looking out the window with a pensive expression. Stiles didn’t know why he even bothered. The only think out there to see was the underbelly of Greenberg’s Ford Explorer.

All this left Scott to break the news. “The, um. The alpha was shot with something,” Scott said unsteadily. “The reason why it wasn’t moving isn’t because it’s distracted. It’s actually injured.” He looked at Laura. “We found black blood. Derek said it was the alpha’s.”

“Black blood,” she echoed, thinking about it. “Bullets don’t usually affect us, but if it was bleeding _black_ blood…”

Lydia tipped her head back slightly. “What was it shot with?”

Harley perked up. “Silver bullets?”

Scott grimaced apologetically. “Silver doesn’t affect werewolves.”

“Oh,” Lydia said, disappointed.

There was an awkward pause.

“Not that we have any silver bullets,” Stiles offered. “And silver is really a poor choice of a metal for ammunition-”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Stiles.”

Stiles turned to Jackson, pressing his palm against his chest. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you have a plan to save us? Because I do. But hey, no, your word is law, so I’ll just zip my lips like a good little-“

“Just tell us!” Jackson shouted. He swallowed, tensing. Then, quieter, he asked, “What do you have in mind?”

Stiles looked at Laura. “I was thinking about you said. About trapping the alpha in the basement.” Stiles smiled. “The shed entrance is still open, isn’t it?”

“I’m listening,” Laura granted, staring at him with interest.

Harley frowned at him. “Yeah, how are you going to force the alpha to go into the shed, let alone go down and back into the basement?”

“Well, a nice combination of bait and chase will do the trick.” Stiles gestured at Scott. “Also, judging by the way Scott’s senses are running wild, I’m betting you guys aren’t fond of sudden noises or smells and flashes of light.”

Lydia narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you seriously considering explosives?”

Derek looked at her. “What are you talking about?”

“Your shed is a health hazard,” Allison said quietly. “Jackson’s dad’s team was supposed to have brought it down before we got here. And they were going to use explosives.”

“Why do you need explosives in the first place?” Cody whispered to Isaac.

“Have you seen this shed? It’s huge.” Isaac made grasping gestures. “Like a tiny guest house.”

“But,” Stiles said over him, “it looks like they never got to bringing it down. Probably because the werewolf ate them. Or something.”

Laura nodded, saying slowly, “So the explosives are either still in their vehicles…” 

“Or the shed is already rigged,” Jackson said, clearly warming up to the idea. “Either way, we should use what we have, right?”

Stiles nodded energetically before clapping his hands together. “So, here’s the plan.” 

They needed to line the entire shed with mountain ash, except for the doorway. Then they needed to draw out the alpha and get it to chase someone—a fast somebody. Somebody who wasn’t werewolfly-impaired, as they needed to be able to jump out of the shed window—and over a mountain ash line—once they delivered the package. Then, to make sure the alpha went down into the basement, they’d set off the explosives and bring down the shed on it.

“After which,” Stiles finished triumphantly, “we seal the entrance with mountain ash.”

“Right,” Laura said with a nod. “Then we figure out how to kill it.”

Stiles was glad Laura was on board. He always did like having her on his side.

“I’m…” Allison paused. She had both hands clasped under her chin. “I’m… not sure if I’m down with the killing it plan.”

Stiles stared at her in disbelief. 

Then Scott piped. “She’s right,” he said earnestly. “This is bad, but I… sorta feel sorry for it? I know it hurt your family, guys, but it’s also been locked down in a basement for years.”

“It’s not an animal,” Allison said right on his heels. “It has thoughts. It has feelings. Maybe those thoughts and feelings are bad and are reason alone to kill it, but what if we could talk to it? Maybe get it to stop killing? I mean… we really don’t understand what’s going on here. Or why.”

There was a moment of silence.

Then Jackson started laughing. It was a horrid, wretched sound. “Are you kidding me?” His disbelief shifted abruptly to anger. “This thing ripped Greenberg in half. In. _Half._ Brian’s dead, Rodriguez and Jess are missing-“

“-and Boyd and Erica-“ Isaac muttered.

Jackson ignored him, spitting out, “-and it’s hunting _us_!” After a moment, he straightened to his full height, face twisted with pity and disgust. “And you want to talk to the thing. Really. What kind of fantasy world do you live in.”

Scott wilted at that, but Allison seemed just more determined. “Well, I can’t be the only one who wants to know what’s going on.” She looked around the room. “Harley?”

“Sorry,” Harley said with a snort. “That thing is crazy.”

“Crazy psychotic or crazy hearing things?” Isaac asked. “Because there’s a whole world of a difference there.”

“I don’t-“

“Shut up!” Laura snapped. Everyone piped down. “We need to take action, and we need to do it now.” She breathed heavily for a moment, then said, “Let’s have a vote. Talk to it or kill it. Lydia, you’re first.”

Lydia took a deep breath, examining the ceiling for a moment. Then, finally, firmly, she said, “I abstain.”

“Lydia,” Jackson bit out impatiently. Then, quieter, he said, “You can’t just not vote for no reason-”

Lydia shot him a withering look. “I abstain on the grounds that we don’t know enough variables to make the right decision, okay?”

Jackson rolled his eyes, then looked to the left. “Cody?”

Cody looked at everyone, wide eyed. “I abstain on the grounds that I don’t wanna.”

“You’re really testing my patience,” Laura growled. Cody wilted slightly. After a beat, he took one step to the left, hiding himself behind Lydia. Lydia just stared at Laura coolly, daring her to make something of it.

Stiles palmed his face. Yay, democracy.

Everyone else had an opinion. There were four votes for trapping and kill it ASAP, and they belonged to Laura, Stiles, Harley, and Jackson. The appeal side also got four votes. They belonged to Allison, Scott, Isaac, and, strangely enough, Derek Hale.

Laura rounded on her brother, curling her fists in his jacket before shoving him up against the wall. “Are you fucking kidding me, Derek?”

Everyone scattered away from the two of them, not wanting to get caught up in a werewolf fight.

But Derek stayed limp, unresisting in her grip. “You remember how it was like before, don’t you?” he demanded. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Laura!”

Laura snarled in his face, nothing human about it. “The alpha kept you chained up in a cellar for six months! You know what that’s called? _Stockholm Syndrome._ ” And then, tears in her voice, she begged, “Change your vote, please.”

Derek looked conflicted and mildly nauseous, but he wouldn’t budge. 

After a minute, Laura pulled away from him. “I guess this is where we part ways,” she said thickly. “You guys do what you feel you need to do, we’ll do what we need to do.” She didn’t look at her brother. Derek looked heartbroken.

“Wait, what about us?” Cody bleated when the room started dividing up.

“Pick a side,” Laura snapped unsympathetically.

Lydia immediately sidled up to Allison, curling her fingers into the hem of her shirt. She lifted her chin, ignoring Jackson’s stuttered out breath of betrayal. Cody reluctantly took a place next to Harley.

Stiles hung back before joining his group. From what he could overhear, Laura was going with his plan. Everyone in his group was surrendering their mountain ash.

Then Scott was in front of him, looking downtrodden. Stiles didn’t like being in opposite groups anymore than he did, but he liked to think he hid it better.

Stiles tweaked his nose. “You look better, dude.”

“Stiles…” There was a plea for understanding wrapped up in an apology in those big brown eyes of him.

Stiles just sighed fondly. “You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t want to save someone.” Stiles shuffled his feet before saying quickly, “It will take a little bit of time to set up things on our end, so if you want to make peace or whatever, you better make it quickly.”

Scott nodded, recognizing the dismissal. “Well. Good luck.” They hugged and parted.

It was a good send off, but it made Stiles feel like crap regardless. He felt like he should have sided with Scott, but Stiles was older now. He hadn’t stuck with Scott like super glue since sophomore year. He and Scott were their own people, did their own things. So why the hell did this feel so much like betrayal on Stiles’ part?

Stiles fled into the kitchen, preparing to declare starvation or dehydration or both to any who demanded reasons for his presence. But the only person in there was Derek. He was trying to turn on the faucet, frowning down at it when water didn’t come.

“They didn’t turn on the plumbing,” Stiles informed him. “Just the electricity.”

“Great,” Derek said flatly. He stayed that way, broad shoulders tense and face turned away from Stiles. He had his hands flattened out, bracing over the counter.

Stiles never felt more inadequate. “Anyway, we’re all off to do our own respectively idiotic and life endangering thing, so…” Stiles trailed off. It was hard, talking to a back. He swallowed before muttering, “I forgive you.”

There was a pause. Then Derek turned around. “What?”

Stiles scowled at him, unable to help himself. He’d obsessed over Derek for so long. Most of his anger at Derek stemmed from the realization that, instead of having an obsession, he could have had the real thing this whole time. From what little he’d seen so far, the real thing was kind of amazing.

Stiles curled his fist, pretending it was his rage and then, slowly, he just… let it go.

“I forgive you,” Stiles said again. “You pissed me off. And, normally, I’d make you work for it. Make it up to me. I’d probably need three months.”

“Three?”

“Months,” Stiles agreed. “But this situation is not normal. And I just…” He paused and then shook his head. “I just don’t want you to face that thing, thinking I hated you.” _And I don’t want to die angry_ , he thought silently.

Derek stared at him for a moment before he huffed out a dismissive snort. “What’s amazing is that you think that _what_ you think makes any difference to me.” 

It was cute how he thought being an abrasive asshole was an automatic turn off.

“Hey, I’m the wind beneath your wings.” Undeterred, Stiles grinned, inviting Derek to join in. An insult here, an insult there—just like old times.

But Derek didn’t respond—not right away. He just stared at Stiles, eyes wide and mouth slightly loose and open.

Stiles shifted uncomfortably before scratching the back of his head. “That- that’s where you’re supposed to deny it. That’s where you’re supposed to-“ Stiles bit down on his mouth, frowning. He didn’t know how to handle this.

A complicated expression flitted over Derek’s face, equal parts exasperation, stubbornness, and apprehension. But, as Stiles watched, it slowly collapsed into nothing, and Derek visibly and tiredly… gave up. He palmed his face, hiding it.

Several moments passed in silence. Just as Stiles considered turning around and walking out, Derek sighed deeply, dropping his hand.

“In a way, you were,” Derek confessed quietly. “I thought about you constantly. Every day, in my head, I wrote a letter to you. Every day, I-“ Derek cut off his words, shaking his head once. “Look. I. I’m _sorry_. I’m sorry for hurting you.”

Stiles stared at him for a long moment and then, unable to help himself, he threw himself at Derek, wrapping his arms around Derek’s shoulders. Derek was stiff as a board and broader than Stiles remembered, but that only made him hug Derek harder.

After a beat, Derek’s hands lifted hesitantly, hovering over Stiles’ hips. “You’re- you’re bigger,” he said stupidly. 

Amused at that, Stiles pulled back just far enough to look at him. Then he paused, watching Derek—or, more accurately, watching Derek watch Stiles.

The plan was simple: they were going to fight the good fight and trap the alpha. And, if they died, at least they would die well and without regrets. And, let’s be real—Stiles was probably going to be the one who died here, not Derek. That was why he was in there, confronting Derek.

But Derek was holding his hips, gazing back at Stiles with a soft expression. His hands were warm, and his attention was long, lingering. The last time someone looked at him like that was when his ex took him on that one date to-

Oh. _Oh._

Okay, new plan. 

“We’re living through this,” Stiles said quietly. “And, after we survive this, I’m going to ask you out on a date.”

Derek’s gaze jerked up from where he was staring at Stiles’ mouth. His eyebrows raised in question. 

Stiles smiled faintly. “I know what I want, but I don’t know what you want. Hell, I don’t think you know what you want. So here’s advanced warning. We’re surviving this, then I’m going to ask you out.” When Derek sucked in his breath, about to respond, Stiles cut him off. “No. Don’t answer now. Think. Consider. Prepare.” He pulled away, putting space between the two of them. “And, if you decide you don’t want to do anything, fine. If you need time to figure things out, even better.” Stiles straightened Derek’s shirt absently. “I waited eight years for you. I can wait a little bit longer.” 

Derek looked stunned. Stiles patted his cheek and left him there, strangely calm. Running a hand over his head, he went back into the next room, where his group was hashing out the final details of their plan.

Derek’s sister looked up at him as he entered. She had to know what went on in the kitchen. But Laura, Bless her, kept the comments to herself.

Harley was talking, hugging her backpack to her chest. “We were going to harass everyone with these, me and-” She sucked in a breath. “Me and Brian.” Through the sad open flop of her backpack, Stiles saw air horns and silly string.

“These will be perfect,” Laura said, pulling out an air horn. “Werewolves hate these even more than school administrators at graduations.” 

“Then what?” Cody asked. “How are we killing it?”

“Maybe we can smother it in concrete, like that one Supernatural episode,” Stiles offered. He was surprised how hoarse his voice was.

Laura cocked her head to the side, considering that. “The tunnels are really narrow, but they go far. That’s a hell of a lot of concrete.”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ, I’ll buy the concrete as long as you morons catch it.” He swallowed harshly, and then said, “Speaking of which, how are we’re going to lure it.”

Laura smiled. “Lure it with me.”

Stiles was doubtful about that—not about her speed, but about just everything else. “The whole shed’s going to be lined with mountain ash. Are you fast enough to dodge out of the way of the alpha without getting trapped in the shed with it?”

“The alpha has never been able to catch me. Today won’t be any different.”

-

“I’d just like it to be understood that appealing to a serial killing creature of the night is a terrible idea,” said Isaac.

“It’s understood,” Scott said kindly. Scott still wasn’t sure exactly why Isaac voted their way, but he sensed that it was out of some form of solidarity with Scott. Scott didn’t know why or how he’d gotten Isaac’s trust, but he was glad for it. Isaac was a steady presence as they huddled together and did the absurd thing of trying to figure out what to say.

Lydia sighed impatiently. “You knew the alpha before?” She directed the question at Derek.

For a long moment, Derek didn’t say anything. “We were like family,” he said finally, reluctantly. “That night, when everyone died, I think the alpha was just trying to… make it permanent. Somehow.”

“Alpha this, alpha that,” Lydia muttered. She drew a line in the dust with her toe.

Derek pivoted and raised an eyebrow at her. “You got a point?” 

Lydia stared at him flatly.

Isaac picked up the thread then, walking up to them with a contemplative expression. “This person is supposed to be practically family, and yet you’ve never mentioned a name, an age, a specific relation. A freaking gender.” Isaac peered at him. “You’re trying to distance yourself from him. Or it. Or her.”

“Still not hearing the point.”

“You’re more afraid of it than anyone else,” Isaac said quietly. He ducked his head slightly, peering at Derek through narrowed eyes. “So why the hell are _you_ trying to reason with it? It killed your family. It’s an irrational, unthinking, unfeeling, serial killing monster. Isn’t it?”

“Not… entirely.” Derek rolled his neck slightly and then, uneasily, he said, “There’s something there, still. I knew it was the second I saw Scott.”

Scott balked at that. “Me?” Scott had been attacked and dragged down the stairs and mauled, and all of that was before he’d battled with the world’s shortest fever. What the hell did Derek see in him?

“The bite is a gift,” Derek said slowly. And then, hesitantly, he turned to Allison. “A gift to _you_.”

Allison’s eyes widened. “What? Why me?”

Derek’s mouth closed. His expression turned blank faster than a bullet. Scott was pretty good with people, but even he couldn’t read a damn thing on him. 

“Whoa, hold up there, mysterious guy,” Lydia said, getting between them. “How can you tell it was a gift?”

“It was a single, clean bite,” Derek said gruffly. “The alpha wasn’t that gentle with my mother, and they were very close.” A strange, sad smile formed on Derek’s mouth. “But, of course, my mom fought. She hit the alpha so hard, she took off an ear.” 

“But then it healed,” Scott guessed, heart squeezing in sympathy. He couldn’t help but think of his own mom, still in her nurse outfit, hair all wild, standing up against a werewolf. And she would do it too. With a bat, maybe.

“Then it healed,” Derek agreed. He dipped his head slightly, looking haunted. “Everything heals.” He turned away from them again, falling deep into thought.

-

They were all outside now, breaths forming fog in the cold. Stiles shivered in his t-shirt and jogged to Laura. Laura was standing stock still under a tree, her entire focus on the house. No, beyond the house, Stiles realized.

“Is it still licking its wounds?” he asked, blowing warm air into his numb palms.

“The alpha’s moving back to the house, slowly.” Then, indifferently, Laura said, “It’s in a lot of pain. It probably can’t get the bullet out.” 

“Will it pass us?”

“It’s on the other side of the house, but…” Laura made a face. She glanced at him, worry peeking out. “Hurry.”

Stiles nodded and ran as quietly as he could back to the shed. Jackson had just finished putting mountain ash over the inside of the structure, leaving just the entrance unguarded. Cody propped open the trap door so that the way into the basement was obvious.

“Smells like death in here,” Jackson bitched, brushing mountain ash off his hands.

And it did. Frowning at him, Stiles started hunting around for the smell. Jackson followed him after a beat, staying just behind him. Stiles was hardly a bloodhound, but it didn’t take him long to find the source.

In the far corner of the shed, there were several lumps not too well hidden by a layer of tarp.

“Oh my God, what is that?” Jackson hissed, sounding distressed.

Stiles lifted up a corner of the tarp and looked in. “Well. That explains what happened to your dad’s inspection crew.”

There were four people lined up in a row, slashed to bits—three men, one woman. One of the men was wearing a shitty blue suit. 

Stiles wanted to take the bodies out, but he also knew that was a bad idea. It would take time and energy they didn’t have. Plus, moving them would alert the alpha that something was up. With regret, Stiles covered his mouth with one hand, then rooted through their clothing with the other, grabbing wallets and identification cards as he went. Maybe their bodies would be messed up pretty bad by the explosion, but at least everyone would know who they were.

After he was done, Stiles gently let the tarp fall back on top of them, ignoring the way Jackson’s breath turned shallow and sharp.

Harley came up just then, bouncing slightly. “What’s that?”

“Don’t ask,” Jackson said thickly.

“Alrighty,” Harley said, trusting him. She turned to Stiles. “Looks like you were right. They finished wiring the shed before the alpha got to them. Everything looks like it will come down once we detonate.” 

“Ooh,” Stiles said flatly. “Do we get a flashy detonator?” 

He was shoving the last wallet into his pocket when Harley handed over a small box. “It was in one of the trucks. Had its own carrying case and everything. There was even a list of do and donts attached to it.” She handed that over too. Stiles glanced at it, noting it was some legal mumbo-jumbo about authorized use only and the bureaucratic hurdles one had to leap through before they could even look at the detonator. Stiles dropped the paper to the ground. 

Stiles flipped the box open. Inside, neatly embraced by foam, was a detonator and a key. Stiles pulled them both out, looking at them.

He couldn’t help it. The key was speaking to him.

Jackson grabbed his wrist, alarmed. “Wait, don’t-“

Stiles turned it on. A whine came from the detonator—the signal was live.

The three of them looked up at the shed around them in unison. Suddenly aware of the stupidity of his act, Stiles shivered and tried to pawn off the detonator to Harley.

“You, uh. You want this?”

She backed away from him, hands up. “Nuh-uh. Nope. Not going to do it.”

“Come on, you’re totally numero uno here.”

“Damn straight I am. That’s why _you’re_ going to do it.” And, just like that, she walked out of the shed.

Stiles tried again. “Jackson?” 

“Not going to happen, Stiles.”

Crap. He was well and truly stuck with it, wasn’t he? 

Handling it like it was a live bomb (and, well, wasn’t it?), Stiles carefully walked outside. Stiles walked up to Laura. Jackson was, again, half a step behind, like he was ready and willing to jump behind Stiles should things go awry.

Laura didn’t even look at him. “Everything set?”

“Ash is in place, air horns are ready, the shed is lit up”—Stiles wiggled the detonator at her—“and ready to go.”

“Good. Because the alpha’s under the porch on the other side of the house.” 

Stiles froze because… because that was where Scott was. Where Derek was. Where Allison and Lydia-

He turned away from everyone, closing his eyes. There was a tight feeling around his chest, like the world spinning around too fast on its axis. Stiles took deep, measured breaths. This was real. This was happening. 

Jackson patted his shoulder hesitantly. “Um, there there now.”

Stiles shot him a disbelieving look. Jackson looked more freaked out by him than he was of Laura, and she was the bona fide movie monster.

“I’m not having a panic attack,” Stiles said firmly, believing it.

Jackson swallowed nervously. “Still. Just. Chill out. Your plan is okay.”

Stiles laughed hoarsely. “Okay? That’s effusive praise from our humble leader.”

A complicated look passed over Jackson’s face. It was irritation, sympathy and resignation all at once. “It’s a good plan,” Jackson said, trying again. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Laura huffed out a laugh at them. “That’s our cue. Assume your positions people.”

After one last look at Stiles, Jackson jogged past him, armed with an air horn and a rake. He charged into the woods without looking back. Stiles wasn’t worried that he’d mess up the plan. Say what you wanted about Jackson’s ego, but the guy never missed his mark on a lacrosse play.

Laura was looking at him now. “Are you ready for this?”

“Never,” Stiles said honestly, and he wasn’t. Once he flipped open a hatch and pressed on a button, he’d be bringing down a building, possibly killing someone—something—if the Hales were wrong about regeneration.

How the hell was he supposed to prepare for that? He was fucking terrified. 

He started walking back to the house anyway.

-

“Hey there,” Lydia said tightly. “Long time no see.”

The alpha shot her a dismissive look before turning its attention back to itself. It had squeezed, somehow, between and under the broken planks of the elevated porch. It was dark under there—deep and dark, Allison amended, but she could still see the alpha pretty well.

Black blood was oozing out of the hole in its thigh. The alpha was trying to pick at it with a long claw, but it only flared blueish-purple light at its attempts. 

“We know you can understand us,” Allison said shakily. The werewolf paused, its ears pricking up slightly. Then it settled its intense red gaze on her. Allison felt like someone had thrown a bucket of ice cold water over her head. She could barely breathe.

“We just want to talk,” Scott said.


	16. Chapter 16

Stiles organized everyone else in a loose formation. Everything was set up so that the alpha would have no choice but to go in a straight path to the shed. If it strayed, one of the others would rush in and blast it in the ear with the air horn. Stiles had tried to arm everyone with a tool from the shed too, if worse came to worst. 

Harley’d laid claim to the ax, Cody the rake. Jackson had made a beeline for the sledgehammer, but rethought that when he lifted it and discovered how heavy it was. 

And Laura? Well… She didn’t take a weapon. She didn’t need one. She was the bait.

Stiles would have been freaking terrified if he was her, but she seemed riled up about it, almost excited—if only in a vicious, aggressive way. She was already shifted. It was an… interesting look on her, to say the least. He had no idea where her eyebrows went, but the Cro-Magnon thing with her forehead made her look super scary.

There was an echo of a wolf in the way she moved, like a caged predator ready to strike. Everyone gave her a wide berth before they departed. They might have all appreciated having a werewolf on their sides, but, dude, she was a _werewolf._ What even.

Once everyone was in place, Stiles jogged around the side of the house, stopping only at the corner. He dropped to a knee and crouched down, peering around it. He had a shovel, but no air horn. Instead, he had the detonator.

Lydia was hanging on Allison while Isaac crowded behind Scott’s shoulder. Derek stood alone. He was a good three feet back, still and frozen and looking nothing more than a leather clad statue.

Stiles overheard Allison, then Scott. Stiles tightened his grip on the shovel, letting his head bump against the side of the house once. He didn’t like the fact that they were over there—not one bit. But if anyone could end this without any further bloodshed, it was Scott. 

Stiles threw an arm in front of Laura, stopping her progress. “Wait.”

Laura turned gold eyes on him, growling. If looks could kill.

“Let them have their chance, Laura.”

“Do you even know what that thing did to Derek?”

“No,” Stiles said unsteadily. Way to make him feel worse about a bad situation, Laura. “And it’s not your place to tell me what happened. That’s up to Derek.”

Laura ignored him, tapping on her collarbone with a fist and a vicious sneer. “After everyone died, I tried to pick up the pieces. I _tried_. But Derek was broken in a way I couldn’t fix.” Now that Stiles was focused on her, he could see that she was less horrifyingly angry and more upset and sad. “I was right in front of him and I could do nothing. But then he’d pull one of your letters out and-“ The expression on her face wasn’t hate or jealousy, but was definitely twisted and negative. “You were the _last_ good thing Derek still had. The last thing untouched by something he still holds himself responsible for.” She pointed a clawed finger in the direction of the porch, her mouth opening in a silent snarl. “And that thing out there knew and used it against him.”

Stiles recoiled slightly. She pressed her advantage. “Six months, Stiles. Derek was with that thing for _six months_. When we stole him back? He was wrecked. He was starving. He was mute. What he suffered? It was torture.” 

Stiles looked away from her, startled and horrified.

“The alpha is a monster. There’s no talking, there’s no compromise, there’s no appealing to its better nature. It doesn’t have one. This? This is a waste of our freaking time.”

-

“So, um.” Allison swallowed and did a half-hearted little wave. “Hi.” She looked behind her at Derek, trying to will him to say something. He looked petrified, for all his talk of wanting to, well, talk.

Scott gulped and stepped forward. “Look, um. We’re sorry if we invaded your territory or whatever. Could you, you know. Stop killing us?”

The werewolf stared at Scott for a long moment before letting out a snort of derision and turning back to licking its leg. It was supremely unconcerned about their presence so near it. It must be nice to know no one knew how to kill you. Or stop you. 

The wound in the alpha’s thigh gleamed blue again and Allison wondered, for the first time, if maybe someone was in the know. If there was a way to fight werewolves. If there was some specialized cops or the military or some sort of paramilitary force that knew how to deal with the monster in front of them.

Blood red eyes flicked over to her and seemed to settle there. Allison swallowed again, thinking that the werewolf could smell the aggression on her. Okay, different tack.

“ _Derek_ ,” Isaac hissed. 

After a moment, a hand settled on Allison’s shoulder. It was Derek’s. She looked up at him only to see him staring down at the alpha. “Hi.”

The alpha let out a low rumble, but it didn’t seem entirely aggressive. Instead, those red eyes darted all over Derek’s face, as if taking him in.

Allison felt a minute tremble shutter throughout Derek’s arm, but the guy’s face never actually changed. “Family. Family’s… always been important to you. Hasn’t it.”

The alpha lifted its head, eyes darting from Allison to Derek. After a beat, Derek released Allison, but kept talking. “You wanted family once, didn’t you? That’s why you didn’t listen to my mother when she sent you away. That’s why you hung around, that’s why you met us at school. That’s why you a-attacked-“

Derek’s voice broke slightly. Allison’s heart hurt for him.

“This?” Derek said, voice stronger. “This is not how you make family.”

He was clearly ill at ease, but he stepped forward, stepping between Allison and the alpha. “You loved my family. You loved my mother. This is not- you _can’t_ have wanted everything to turn out like this.” He gestured up at the house. “An abandoned house with nothing but dead people. That’s not what you wanted.” After a beat, he turned, pointing at Allison and Lydia and the rest of them. “And this, this is not what you wanted. So please. Please, just stop.”

For a long moment, the alpha was completely still. Then it pulled back, retreating deeper into the darkness under the porch, red eyes gleaming. Bones shifted audibly and, as Allison watched, the alpha seemed to lose a lot of its animalistic edge—muzzle shortening, hands shrinking.

There was an awful noise—thin and grating.

Allison realized, with a jolt, that the alpha was _laughing_. It had a hoarse, almost twinned voice that was deep, yet strangely genderless. 

Derek went rigid again, taking a wide step back.

“How… stupid… do you think I am?” the alpha said in its soft voice. “You think I don’t know what you’re trying to do?” It laughed again. “The only reason you’re talking to me is because he still hasn’t figured out how to kill me. You’re so afraid, Derek. So very afraid. You’re hoping I won’t notice your boy’s scent.” 

Allison could see it was uncoiling under the porch, preparing to pounce. 

Derek was backing up hastily and Allison did the same, shoving Lydia behind her. But Scott and Isaac didn’t seem to get the same hint. Scott was staring at the alpha, dull eyed and mesmerized.

“You’re hoping I don’t remember what I said I’d do to you if you left me.” The alpha mouth split open in a wide and unsettling smile. “See, Derek, unlike you, _I keep my promises._ ”

There was a black flash of movement out from under the porch. They all scattered automatically, moving out of the way, yelping.

Then Isaac yelled for Scott.

Allison turned around. The alpha was out, visible in the moonlight, and Scott’s arm was twisted behind his back and his face was on the floor. Isaac was on his ass, scrambling away from him even as he gaped up at the alpha in horror. 

Making a wounded noise, Allison took two steps to Scott before Lydia was pulling her back and away from the werewolf. Scott’s shoulder was at a grotesque, impossible angle. His agonized scream petered off into heavy, labored breathing. The alpha had a foot on his back, pinning him down. Scott jerked slightly under the alpha’s touch when the alpha reached down to run a rough hand through his hair. 

Allison was crying because this was wrong, this was _awful_. Scott was going to die because she felt sorry for a _monster_. 

The alpha grinned up at Derek. “Ten points to Hufflepuff for that marvelous attempt at emotional manipulation, Derek. And, yes, I do want _family_ ,” the monster said, baring its teeth. “But the most successful families, the best, the most harmonious. They can only exist when everyone else fears the parent. When everyone obeys. When everyone knows there are consequences.” The alpha’s head turned sharply. “Isn’t that right, Allison?”

“What?” Allison said softly, almost to herself. How did it know her name?

“You haven’t been obeying me, Derek. That is very disappointing.” The alpha gestured to Scott. “Shall I make an example of this one?”

“ _No_ -“ Allison choked out, but Lydia caught her before she could get much closer, hauling her back.

Derek’s face- Derek had changed. His hair was wilder and his forehead had disappeared under a prominent brow. His eyes were hard and a glowing gold, fear gone and only rage in its place. He stepped protectively between them and the werewolf. 

“Let. Him. Go,” Derek snarled through a heavy mouthful of fangs. “Now.”

“Gladly.”

Then the alpha threw Scott at him. They both went down in a confusion of limbs. Before anyone else could react, the alpha took off into the woods, kicking up dust and leaves in its wake. 

Then Cody screamed. The others started yelling, voices high and panicked. There was the belated bleat of an air horn, but it was almost deafened by the screaming in the woods.

Isaac skidded towards them, wide eyed and afraid. “Well, Cody’s dead and Lydia changed her vote to kill, the tie is gone, so can we kill this thing already?”

Lydia was already running into the woods, screaming for Jackson. 

Scott stood first, a hand on his shoulder. His eyes glowed yellow, but they had a certain sharpness that was missing from before. A certain awareness. “Let’s,” he growled.

-

They tried. They tried to do the right thing, but people were still getting hurt. People were still dying. So maybe the only choice they had was to kill the alpha—to stop it, permanently.

Maybe the only choice Scott had was to give into the rage humming under his skin, the wildness and instinct that turned his vision red, his claws long, and his strides fast.

Even so, as he ran towards the scream, it seemed like all Scott could see was the horrified expression on Allison’s face as she realized that he had turned completely into a monster. 

Despair was for later. For now, his mind was clear. He could hear the others racing after him, feet pounding against grass. 

As fast as they were, they weren’t fast enough.

The alpha darted out of the woods to trample on Harley, muzzle gleaming brightly with blood. The others came out of the woods in a formation Scott recognized vaguely from a lacrosse play, which was smart, but no lacrosse play properly accounted for an opponent who could clear a hundred feet in under five seconds.

Harley was dead, limp on the ground, but Jackson still charged it, air horn in front of him like a gun. Before he could push the button, the alpha whipped around and bit deeply and savagely into Jackson’s arm. Jackson screamed, dropping the air horn.

But then Lydia appeared out of nowhere, lighter and a hair spray bottle in hand. There was a sudden gush of fire. The alpha whirled away from Jackson, half falling on the grass as it tried to pat itself down.

Before it could turn and run in a different direction, Scott was there. He jumped and kicked the werewolf so hard, it hit a tree. It snarled at him, hideously angry, but also wide eyed and desperate. Scott saw double for a brief second—the monster, on its knee and snarling, and then himself, forehead distorted, fur down his jaw, and eyes glowing a defiant gold. Both images were wreathed in red.

It went abruptly to the right, clearing fifty yards in seconds, but Derek had picked up an air horn and let it go. 

Scott flailed at the sound, as far away as he was. It was an ice pick to his eardrum. It had to be worse for the alpha, because it fell away from Derek, huge hands plastered against its head. 

The surviving humans took up the air horns and corralled the alpha, driving it to the shed. It stopped trying to go left or right. It went straight for the shed, running blindly as Derek, Laura, and Scott chased after it. 

Air horns were going off all around them. The noise hurt so much, Scott thought he was going to puke, but he kept going. Scott dropped down to all fours and it wasn’t even strange.

Just as the alpha reached the shed, Scott leaped forward. Following some instinct, he slashed at its legs. The werewolf stumbled through the door, just barely missing Isaac, not so much running through the entrance as crashing through it.

Isaac raced to the shed door, closing it and laying down the final line of mountain ash.

-

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Stiles wondered if this was what it was like to have a heart attack. His heart was racing so quickly he was practically trembling from the surge of adrenaline and fear. And when he ran, he flew. 

The door was closed and the line was laid down. Isaac was stumbling back, almost falling over himself in his attempt to put as much space between him and the caged alpha as possible. It was noisy in there—pissed off growling, metal against metal, massive clawed feet stomping across a messy floor. Stiles didn’t want to think what the alpha would do to the bodies of the crew, but, hey. At least they were already dead. 

Stiles rounded the shed quickly so he could see through one of the windows. He stayed a good distance from the shed, because, trapped or not, that was a freaking werewolf and he wasn’t stupid. 

They had surrounded the whole interior with mountain ash, and the alpha had to have discovered that, judging by the outraged howl that rose then. The alpha was trapped and it knew it. It was pacing, snarling, roaring. It slammed its fists against an invisible wall, only to be thrown back. 

Stiles was almost unsure of the next step of the plan now. Did they really need to blow up the shed now? The thing was well and truly caught.

Wow. They caught a werewolf. They caught a freaking alpha werewolf serial killer. What were the odds of that?

Palming the detonator, Stiles let out a soft huff of a laugh, mostly in disbelief. He couldn’t believe it worked. 

He’d barely closed his mouth around the sound when red eyes snapped towards him, narrowing viciously. The alpha disappeared for a moment, ducking somewhere the window couldn’t see. Then it was in the frame again, upright and terrifying and carrying something.

As if in slow motion, Stiles watched as a meaty arm drew back and then snapped forward. 

It happened so quickly, Stiles could barely react. 

The glass broke, shattering outwards around a long, dark mass. There was a whistling noise and then Stiles was hit solidly in the torso so hard that he lost his breath. 

Stiles looked down. There was a pipe sticking out of his chest, pinning him neatly to the tree behind him.

Well. Okay. Screw you too, lady.

He flipped open the hatch and pushed the button.

-

Allison flinched backwards instinctively, covering her face as the shed blasted outwards, metal walls folding like paper. The ringing in her ear took a while to go away. When it did, she was aware of a hysterical, triumphant cheer. She let out a soft, pained laugh and ran a little faster to the shed, relief giving her wings.

She came to the edge of it, eyes searching out a huge shadowed mass. 

The alpha wasn’t there and she was _glad_. She laughed, the noise bursting out of her. The werewolf didn’t like fire, didn’t like explosive sounds. The explosion had driven it down into the winding basement, just like they predicted.

Stiles was a genius. 

She looked around, her smile dimming. Where was Stiles?

“ _Stiles!_ ” 

Oh no. Oh no oh no _oh no_. 

Panicking, Allison searched out the source amongst the trees, noticing only Derek, at first. She ran to him, the image sharpening, worsening.

Stiles was dying, pinned to the tree like a bug. Derek was on his knees, keeping Stiles as upright and still as possible—to lessen the damage, she realized.

“Oh God, Stiles,” Allison breathed. Blood was bubbling out of Stiles’ mouth. He kept on reflexively petting Derek’s hair. The detonator was on the ground next to his foot.

Scott made a wounded noise and sprinted the rest of the way there. He skidded to a stop in front of Stiles, dropping to his hands and knees before crowding up against Stiles’ side. He got a good grip on the edge of Stiles’ shirt, but seemed too afraid to touch anything else.

“Everything is going to be okay, okay? Everything’s going to be-”

The light in the forest changed, flashing red and blue. Allison was dimly aware of shouting, of sirens. Stiles’ mouth was moving. He was trying to breathe and talk at the same time and not having an easy time with either.

“Ash,” he said finally. “Trap door. Ash.” Allison realized he wasn’t so much petting Derek as he was swatting him, trying to get him to finish the trap. 

Derek looked at him, jaw tight, looking defiant and hopeless at the same time. Even if he could, he wouldn’t.

Lydia took the rest of the mountain ash her purse. “I got it.”

Jackson was sitting there, bare chested and pale. His shirt was wrapped tightly around his arm and already drenched in blood. He stared at Stiles and just looked lost.

After one last look at Stiles, Lydia ran off, her hair waving behind her like a flag.

“Allison!” Someone called out. The voice was hoarse, female, and familiar.

Her name came again. “Allison!” The voice was deep and male, and that was-

Allison stepped out from under the tree, looking around. “Erica? Boyd?”

It was them. Oh God, it was them, they were alive and- 

Once they saw her, they ran to her. Boyd had grass stains on his shirt and mud smeared on his forehead. Erica’s cheeks were slightly flushed, her hair wild around her head and full of twigs. Their clothes were ripped and torn and bloody, but they seemed alright underneath it all. Erica paused, looking off into the trees, but Boyd hurried the rest of the way to them.

“We called the cops,” Boyd said, jerking a thumb at the flashing lights. “So we better come up with a cover story, fast.”

Then he saw Stiles and froze, speechless.

Erica rounded around his shoulder at a jog. “We heard the explosion, was that the alpha? You guys are-“ Just as abruptly, she stopped. “Oh, shit, Stiles,” Erica blurted out.

Stiles lifted his head. “Oh my god,” he said hoarsely. “I thought you two were dead.” Erica let out a nervous burst of laughter, but took his hand when he reached for her. No hard feelings between the two of them, it seemed.

“We were bitten,” Boyd told Allison quietly. “But we ran into a guy who knew how to jumpstart it, how to make it come faster.” He rubbed at his arm absently.

Before Allison could ask who, Laura’s raised, shrill voice suddenly provided the answer. “For fuck’s sake, Peter, where the fuck have you been?” 

There was a man there, almost lurking behind a tree. He curled in on himself slightly when Laura’s voice rose, but otherwise looked way too goddamn casual for the situation—clean button up, slicked back hair, hands in the pockets of his slacks.

Those hands rose defensively when Laura pushed him—shoved him, and with a good deal of strength behind it. 

“Hey now, watch the merchandise.”

“I called you _hours ago_!”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

Laura shoved him again, her eyes gleaming an inhuman gold. “People died, you asshole!” she shrieked.

“Don’t be so rude,” Peter chided her, fixing the hang of his shirt. “I got help and I saved two teenagers. Three cheers for Peter.”

“That’s Peter. No one likes him,” Stiles told Allison faintly. “Peter’s a dick.”

“Good to know,” Scott said quietly. “Now, _stop talking_.”

The EMTs came through the trees. There was two of them, one young, red headed, and male, the other female with a streak of gray near her temples. They were wide eyed and pale under the flashing lights of the ambulance. They had found Harley first and, since she was...

Oh God. Harley was dead. The world spun. Allison needed to sit down. But she had no right to, did she? Harley was dead and Cody and Brian and Rodriguez and Jessica and freaking _Greenberg_ …

Isaac waved his arms. “Hey, over here! This one’s alive!”

“Hey, Erica,” Stiles mumbled. “Keep talking.”

Jarred out of their shock, the two EMTs jogged over to them, gear in hand. They gradually came to a stop about thirty feet away.

“Oh shit,” one of the EMTs said, looking between Jackson and Stiles.

Jackson’s face twisted. “Him first, Jesus Christ.” His knuckles were white where he was gripping his arm. He tried to get up and almost fell, but Lydia appeared at his side, propping him up on her shoulder. They stared at each other for a very long time.

“There was a girl too,” Erica was whispering to Stiles. “She had a rifle. She’s the one who shot the alpha.” Tears gleamed in her eyes because, while Stiles was nodding, it was clear he wasn’t really following her anymore. Erica backed away as the EMT pushed forward.

Allison briefly pressed her forehead against Stiles’ cheek. Some part of her wanted to be thrilled and ecstatic that help had already arrived, but a bigger part of her whispered that it was too little, too late.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, choking on her breath. “I’m so sorry.” She backed away, giving the EMT some room.

Stiles’ eyes were already closed, his head drooping. He hadn’t heard her at all. 

Allison backed away even more, lost in a whirl of shouting and bright lights and the daunting feeling that she just lost a very close friend.

 


	17. Chapter 17

The hospital smelled like burnt coffee and disinfectant and misery. 

Allison walked into the bathroom and leaned against the door. After a beat, she put her head in her hands. This was the longest night of her life and it was far from over. She shuffled forward to the sinks.

Stiles was in surgery. They still hadn’t found their cell phones. The cops were running around, looking for some forest dwelling serial killer. With an attack wolf. Because _that_ , ladies and gentleman, was the logical explanation.

Allison rested her forehead against the mirror, sighing heavily. She opened her eyes, peering at her bleary reflection. They were bloodshot with dark circles beneath them. 

She splashed her face with some water before drying off. Stepping out of the bathroom took some adjustment. Eleven am had never looked so surreal or so hateful. She stumbled back to the waiting room, rubbing her eyes.

The official story they told the cops was that there was a serial killer living in the woods. They didn’t specify that the serial killer had been living in the Hale house in particular because they didn’t want the cops to go snooping around the basement.

But it was only a matter of time before someone did. And they _still_ didn’t know how to kill it.

In better news, Allison met Scott’s mom today. She had known instantly who the nurse was. She had dark curly hair and Scott’s smile, and had come over to Allison immediately to see how she was doing. The combination of it—the friendliness and the open warmth—made Allison break down.

Allison remembered the meeting with a tinge of nostalgia and humiliation. Anguish and terror and guilt slammed on her head like an anvil just as Melissa smiled at her sympathetically. She’d barely introduced herself before Allison burst into tears. 

Melissa just hugged her tightly and talked her through it, rubbing her back as Allison wailed with the hopeless despair of it all.

Finally, Allison found the strength to pull away and told her stupidly, “This is not how I wanted to meet you.”

“It’s okay, sweetie, it’s okay.” 

Melissa was somewhere else at the moment, doing her job brilliantly, considering the circumstances. Instead of her in the nurse’s station, there was a different nurse—blonde, blue eyes, hair in a severe bun.

“Allison Argent?” that nurse said, a phone to her ear.

Allison turned to her blearily. “Yeah?”

“You have a call, sweetheart.” The nurse stretched the phone in her direction. 

Allison frowned. Who would call her at a hospital? “Uh, thanks.” She took the phone from the nurse, turning slightly away from her in a poor bid for privacy. “Hello?”

“Allison. Come home, now.”

The terse tone jarred Allison out the fog she was operating in. She went on high alert.

“Dad?” Allison tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “What? Why?”

“We’re packing the house up. I’m looking at the bus routes. If you start walking now, you can catch one and be home in thirty minutes.”

Allison sighed, rubbing her forward. “Dad, I don’t think you understand what happened. A lot of my classmates were murdered and-”

“All the more reason for us to leave,” he interrupted, sounding harassed. “If you don’t have money for the bus, I can swing by and pick you up.” There was a jingle of keys in the background. “I will be there in fifteen minutes. Wait for me out front, you understand? Allison?” Then, suddenly, he snapped, “Answer me when I’m talking to you.”

There was a time in her life where such a thing would instantly make her tear up and cry. She loved her parents. She hated conflict. She hated conflict with them the most. And yet, now…

Allison took a calm, soothing breath and examined the ceiling. She was all cried out. That helped, she thought.

“It doesn’t matter when you get here,” Allison said softly. “Five minutes, ten minutes, a whole hour. That won’t change a thing, because I will be here still when you give up and leave.” Her voice wobbling, she said, “Stiles got a pole through his chest. Jackson nearly lost his arm. Someone was torn in half. A ton of people are dead right now, Dad. Because of me.” She blinked suddenly heated eyes and said firmly, “So I’m staying. I’m staying because my friends need my support and because I’m not sure one of them last through the night.” She tipped her chin up slightly. “So go ahead. Be mad. Leave without me if you want. I’m an adult. I can take care of myself.”

She didn’t wait for a response just turned around and gently hung up the phone. The nurse shot her a sympathetic look, but otherwise didn’t comment. Allison gave her a tight smile before walking back to the lobby.

Scott was sitting there, slumped in a chair. After a beat, she sat next to him.

he tapped the armrests of his chair for a moment before muttering, “Stop blaming yourself.”

She turned to him, surprised. “What?”

“Your conversation. With your dad.” Scott shot her a slightly guilty expression. There was no such thing as privacy in public. No such thing with werewolves either.

So she let it go, blowing out a breath slowly. “He’s never been so angry at me,” she confessed.

“He’s scared. They all are,” Scott said frankly. Then, after a beat, he said, “When my mom heard about what happened, she screamed at me and grounded me for life.”

Allison thought about the nurse who’d let Allison blabber all over her. She couldn’t believe it. “Really?”

“Oh yeah. She was furious.” Scott shrugged. “Then she started crying and then I started crying and then we started both crying and hugging each other. Tears and snot were, like, everywhere-”

“Oh, come on.”

Scott smiled softly. “She was afraid. Your dad’s afraid. We’re all afraid.” Scott flipped over the arm closest to her, offering his hand. After a moment, she slid her palm against his. “No matter how many movies we make about it, no one knows the protocol for handling a serial killer hiding out in the woods.” Or a werewolf, his eyes said. “We’re all just bouncing around in the dark and lashing out at each other. When he finds his feet again, your dad will come around.”

“You sure about that?”

Scott nodded. “Oh yeah. He loves you. You’re impossible not to love.”

And despite guilt and the sorrow and the nagging feeling that nothing was quite _finished_ yet, Allison smiled at him, wondering how someone could be so sweet and kind and-

She jerked up abruptly. “Oh my God, have you even been looked at?”

“Huh?”

Allison turned to him as best as she could. “You were bitten. You were burning up. I’m so sorry, I didn’t even-”

Scott’s eyes creased in understanding. “It’s okay.” He looked left and right, then lifted up his shirt, baring his side. His smooth side. Then he let it fall and tugged on the collar of his shirt, showing her his shoulder. There was nothing there, not even a bruise.

Then, finally, he settled back into the chair, cursory show done. “Getting slammed around and choked out by a werewolf on top of falling three stories and having my shoulder broken, well…” He shrugged. “It jumpstarted the werewolf thing.”

“Oh.” Allison relaxed then. “Good.”

Scott blinked at her in surprise. “Yeah?” He sounded shy.

“Definitely,” she said firmly. She covered her eyes with her hand. “Ugh. I’m so tired.”

“Me too.” After a moment, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. She reached around as best as she could and hooked her arm across his waist. She smiled when he pressed a kiss against her forehead.

He was her little island of sanity in the big looming ocean of uncertainty.

-

The hours slowly rolled by. Scott and Allison had moved to the couch before long, as the individual chairs severely hampered their cuddle time. Allison was draped over his lap now, sleeping. Scott petted her hair, soothed by the gesture.

She had been too. Allison had drowsily said how nice she thought it was before succumbing to her exhaustion, so Scott didn’t feel totally weird.

He kinda _needed_ her right now. His senses were going wild, spinning from high to low and back again. But that was when he was alone. When Allison was with him, the world quieted down. He’d been dialing down from eleven right about the moment that she sat down next to him. He really needed something or someone to focus on, and she was just about his favorite topic, so… win/win?

Scott tipped his head back, looking at the ceiling. 

Good, she’d said. The werewolf thing was good, if only because he was no longer injured. Scott smiled giddily. He hadn’t dared to even dream she’d be okay with it. 

But that drove home the fact that he didn’t really know Allison Argent. He’d put her up on a pedestal, worshipping her from afar, only to find out she was flawed and human and strangely broken, and yet somehow even better than he thought.

Even footsteps came to a stop in front of him. He lifted his head, blearily opening his eyes to see Isaac Lahey standing in front of him. He must have gone home. He was in a cleaner clothes, having clearly taken a shower. There was something about the way he stood, stronger and taller. Scott remembered, as if from a dream, the phrase ‘locked in a freezer’.

Then he came to full alert. “Are you okay?”

“Better,” Isaac said. He tilted his chin to Allison. “What about her?”

“She’s exhausted.”

Isaac nodded.”Laura and Derek?”

Scott frowned, not knowing what to say to that. The Hale siblings had the swagger of people in control, but on his last walk around, he’d seen enough of them both to know that was a big, fat lie. 

Derek had set up camp in the cafeteria. Last Scott saw of him, he was staring down with a forlorn expression, like he could find solution to his woes at the bottom of his bowl of curly fries. Laura sat next to him and tore up napkins until a deputy showed up and whisked her away to the sheriff department to take her statement. 

Derek hadn’t budged and, somehow, Scott knew that he was one hundred percent focused, his full attention sliding past the buzzing of voices and beeps of machines to raspy, labored breathing of an eighteen year old boy. He still had Stiles’ blood all over him. He looked like an extra in a horror movie.

“Anyone find our phones yet?” Scott asked instead.

Isaac shook his head. “The alpha hid them pretty good. Took them apart and everything.” 

Scott accepted that. “I need you to do something for me.” 

“Anything.”

Scott paused slightly at that, but then carried on, saying, “Check the ash on the trapdoor to the basement. In fact, check them all.”

Isaac tipped his chin up slightly. “You think the lines have been disturbed?”

“I think there’s a manhunt going on right now for the person who killed eleven people in one night. Anything is possible.”

Isaac frowned deeply. “Alright, I’ll do it.” 

Scott caught his wrist before he left. “Don’t go alone.” It wasn’t so much a command as a plea.

“He won’t.” A girl slid out from behind a corner. “I’ll go with him.”

Isaac lit up at the sight of her. “Scott, this is Cora. Cora Hale.”

What? There was another one of them? “Oh. Hi.” 

“Save it,” Cora said, clearly not interested in making small talk. She took a pen from the nurse’s station and grabbed Scott’s arm, scratching out a phone number on the inside of it. Once she was done, she glanced up at him with a solemn expression. “Here’s my phone number. Call if the kid improves.” She let go of him, slapping the pen against Isaac’s chest. “I don’t particularly care one way or another, but I can relay the message to people who do.”

“Uh, thanks.” He didn’t know whether to be assured by her unemotional direction in this, or offended on Stiles’ behalf.

“Isn’t she great?” Isaac whispered, eyes lit up. “She showed up at my house and threatened to hang my father by his entrails if he so much as _looked_ at me wrong. I don’t even know how she knew!”

Scott had a general idea. There was supposed to be another person with Peter, a girl. That had to be Cora. They both staked out the house while waiting for Derek and Laura. Cora must have heard their big confessions.

Cora rubbed him the wrong way, but he had to remember what she had done. When Matt learned secrets about people, he sought to use it against them. Cora heard secrets about people and tried to make their situations better. Grumpily and with no apparent enjoyment, that was, nevertheless, her choice.

And choices revealed a lot.

Cora was already walking down the hall. She made an impatient gesture with her hand when she crossed paths with Erica and Boyd. “You two with us.”

Erica and Boyd exchanged a confused look with each other, then with Scott. Then Boyd shrugged and followed Cora. Erica was not far behind, hurrying up to slide her hand in his. Isaac chased after them all with a wide grin.

Scott sorta wished he was going with them, but then he looked down at Allison. Her even, steady breathing was hypnotic. Then he looked up at the nurse’s station. Right. Priorities. Stiles, Allison, then alphas. The others could handle things on their end.

Shifting slightly, Scott let his head fall back closing his eyes.

He wouldn’t remember falling asleep.

-

Cora took to running with ridiculous, irritating ease, despite being in a coma for god knows how long. She had her rifle slung sideways along her back. Erica remembered her gruff apology when she turned around and ditched them in the forest when the ambulance and the cops came around. Apparently, her rifle wasn’t registered and her bullets weren’t normal. 

But Erica thought that her desire to flee had less to do with awkward conversations with cops and more to do with avoiding her older siblings. Derek and Laura were more or less harmonious, like twins. When they threw Cora into the mix, there was a lot of shifting around and guilty looks. Apparently, someone had been abandoned at a hospital a few years back, and a grudge had blossomed.

In any case, Cora didn’t let her negative feelings cloud her from the important things in life, like making sure a serial killing alpha stayed in its cage. They came up to the house pretty quickly. Erica tried not to gag at the smell of blood and ash. 

Cora and Boyd were with her, but the other two were still behind, human and jogging at human speeds.

There were four of them initially—Erica, Boyd, Isaac, and Miss Cora herself. But just as they exited the hospital, an unfamiliar car pulled up to the front. The driver side door swung open.

It was Lydia. She was alone. Jackson’s parents had whisked Jackson away to their private doctors and their private hospitals, and were guarding him like bears.

She stepped out. She was wearing flat shoes and a plain skirt. Her hair was wild and she was wearing no makeup. She looked unfairly beautiful nevertheless.

“Going to check on our prisoner? Good. You can come with me. I was looking for some back up.” Her gaze jumped to Cora. In three seconds, there were three things in her expression—assessment, recognition, and understanding. Then Lydia turned away, pushing a button to unlock all the doors. “You too, moon pie.” 

Lydia flipped her hair over her shoulder and looked back at Cora again. They gazed at each other challengingly before Lydia slipped back into the driver’s side.

Reluctantly, they all approached the car.

Lydia adjusted her mirrors indifferently. “The passenger’s seat is occupied. You’ll have to double up in the back seat.” 

Erica looked up at Boyd, her heart in her throat. Would it push- was that pushing things? Boyd stared back at her. They had a thousand word conversation in a single look. When it was done, she immediately slid onto Boyd’s lap. He wrapped his arms around her waist, like a living seat belt.

Erica grinned. Aw. She always did want to live long enough to sit in someone’s lap.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the car, Isaac was sweating bullets. “How do you want to do this?” he asked nervously.

Cora shot him a baleful glare. “Sit down, doofus.” Then, once he was in the car, she gingerly sat on his lap, looking annoyed. “This is probably the most exciting day of your life, huh?”

If Isaac could merge with the car seat, he would have. “Whatever you’d like, please don’t kill me.”

“You better have a damn good reason why the passenger side is occupied.”

“My car, my rules, moon pie.” But she did have a good reason. On the passenger seat was a box. In it were the ingredients for several fire bombs, plus a knife, a flare, some rope, a taser, and a satellite phone. Lydia was ready for anything.

She pulled off to the side, close to where Cora had buried her gun. Cora grabbed her gun, but advised Lydia to hold off on the fire bombs for now. They were just checking on the mountain ash line, nothing more. There was no reason to assume that they needed to go in with that many weapons.

Erica tipped her head up, scenting something in the breeze. They should have trusted Lydia’s paranoia.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Cora whispered, taking off into a run. Lydia and Isaac had barely caught up with them, but everyone starting going again, following Cora to the shed.

There were three deputies on the ground. Two were slashed open and clearly dead. The last was closer to the shed. 

“Miss Tara?” Isaac said hesitantly. 

The deputy was silent and then, slowly, her eyes opened. She groaned. “Godamnit, Isaac, I’m not your teacher anymore.”

They rushed to her aid. Apparently, she was checking out the shed, smart enough to recognize a recent explosion. But then she’d accidentally interrupted the ash line. That was just what the alpha, lying in wait in the basement, was waiting for. It had burst out of the basement, shredding through Tara’s backup. 

Tara was lucky. She got hit by a flying piece of the trap door and knocked down. She had cracked ribs and couldn’t move. And the alpha was more concerned with escaping than making sure everyone died. That was the only reason she was alive.

She was so, so lucky.

Together, they got the trap door off her. Tara reached for her radio and called it in. She seemed bewildered about what happened and was probably slightly concussed. She hadn’t noticed Cora’s rifle yet, but sure as hell noticed when Erica stepped into the remains of the shed.

“Goddamnit, girl, don’t-“

She had to check. She had to know. Was it really gone? 

She stood there quietly, listening, straining. The alpha wasn’t down there anymore.

The nightmare wasn’t over.

-

Allison woke up in layers, reluctant and unhappy about it. Finally, she sat up, rubbing at the weave the couch had pressed into her cheek. She looked around. It was almost nighttime and Scott was gone.

She frowned. That was so unlike Scott, not to wake her before he left. Or did he leave? Was he in the bathroom? The cafeteria? 

Allison perked up. Was he with _Stiles_?

She stood up on wobbly feet just as the sheriff of Beacon Hills reentered the lobby from the elevator. He looked too exhausted and too burdened for someone whose son had been cleared for visitors. Stiles still wasn’t in good condition.

Allison wanted to shrink away, to hide. But it was too late: Sheriff Stilinski was already looking at her.

She approached him unsteadily. “Hi.”

“Hi.” There were deep lines under his eyes. They were bloodshot. Allison’s heart squeezed with sympathy—and a great deal of guilt.

“I’m… so sorry for my part in this,” she said quietly and with feeling.

The sheriff sighed. “Oh, kiddo, I don’t blame you.”

Allison swallowed heavily, heat growing behind her eyes. “Shouldn’t you? I’m the proximate cause, right?”

He smiled a little. “I don’t think you understand what that means.” After a pause, the sheriff cocked his head slightly. His smile turned fond. “Do you know Stiles walks around that property all the time? He thought I didn’t know. His whole life was consumed by that one mystery. He would have come across that maniac sooner or later.” He rubbed at his eyes. “At least, this time? He had people with him.”

Allison ducked her head, overwhelmed. He squeezed her shoulder. “You should go home. Get some rest.”

After a beat, she nodded. “I will. Thank you.”

She watched him go, knowing the kindness of a dad in pain. It was about time she dealt with her own parents, and their own fears. It was just fear, right? That was what Scott said.

Speaking of which, Melissa came out of the elevator, curly hair wild. Though clearly tired, Melissa smiled at the sight of her, which encouraged Allison to approach her.

“Hi. Um, where’s Scott?”

Melissa shrugged. “Honestly, honey, I have no idea. He left an hour ago, but when I tried to talk to him, he-“ She just shook her head.

“It’s been a rough day,” Allison said quietly. “Especially for him.”

“And for you. For all of us.” Melissa sighed, then tilted her head to the side, examining Allison. “Are you heading home?”

Allison winced. “Yeah, but um. My car is sort of… the property of the Beacon Hills Sheriff Department right now, so… do you know the bus system around here?” Allison smiled winningly.

Melissa rolled her eyes. “None of that, I’ll drive you home myself.”

Allison was surprised. “You’d do that?”

“My shift is over. Give me five minutes and I’ll get you out of here.”

Allison stepped back slightly. “Oh, okay. Thank you so much.”

“No problem.” Melissa patted Allison’s shoulder. “I’ll meet you out front.”

About seven minutes later, a blue car pulled up to the curb, honking once. It was cold outside, and dark. Allison could see her breath forming little puffy clouds. 

Allison approached the car cautiously at first, then with more confidence when she saw familiar curly hair.

“Sorry, sorry,” Melissa breezed as Allison climbed into the passenger side. “Doctors are dicks.” Her eyes widened. “Ooh, am I not supposed to say that? I don’t want to mortally embarrass Scott or anything…”

Allison laughed, pulling on her seatbelt. “That’s fine. How’s Stiles?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you, but…” Melissa shot her a mega wattage smile.

Allison laughed again, delightedly. She smiled so widely, her cheeks hurt. “He’s doing good? Oh God, you have no idea-“

“I really do.”

They both laughed and, if it was slightly hysterical, then there was no one around to judge.

Ice broken by their shared joy, they talked a lot on the drive home. Conversation came easy with Melissa. She was kind and funny and knew just about everything about the town. She was a great distraction from all the ugliness cluttering up Allison’s head.

Melissa pulled up in front of her house. “You live here? It’s sorta, uh…” She shrugged a shoulder. “Lonely.” And it was. Their closest neighbor was ten houses away. All the houses in between were unoccupied.

Allison unbuckled her seat belt. “Yeah, well, Dad’s really good at sniffing out deals. No one may live here, but the houses are ridiculously cheap. I don’t understand why no one has bought these up.”

“Honey, no one buys these houses because they’re built on swamp land.”

Allison stared at her, surprised. “You’re kidding me.”

“Nope. They’re always having to drain this place.” And then, clearly backpedalling, she said, “I’m sure the house is nice, though.” She was shooting Allison big eyed, apologetic looks, like she didn’t mean to diss Allison’s house and was feeling super bad about it.

She was so much like Scott. It was hilarious.

Smiling, Allison got out of the car and leaned over to look at her. “Thank you so much.”

Melissa waved it off. “Not a problem. Call me if you need anything.”

Allison watched her car go, turn down the street. Then, when even the illumination of her tail lights had disappeared, Allison finally turned to face her house.

Her parents’ car was in the front. Although she knew it would be, she couldn’t help a swell of dread. She sucked it up and walked up to her house. She might not have had her phone, but she still had her keys, and she used them to get inside.

The first thing she heard was fingers tapping against glass. Allison closed her eyes, wincing. Her mother used to be a music teacher and was unable to resist tapping out a tempo. Allison could just see her—sitting there, all straight backed and severe, mouth pulled into a thin line.

“Okay, I know you’re mad,” Allison called out, closing the door behind her. “I get it. I understand where you’re coming from.” She remembered what Scott said about bouncing around in the dark. Emboldened, she said, “And I know you’re scared too, so can we just skip the part where you lecture me and move on to the part where you tell me how to make things better?” There was no response. “Mom?”

She turned the corner into the living room and froze, because her mother was no blond.

“Hello, Allison.” Kate Argent looked up from where she was tapping the table. “Looking for someone?”

 


	18. Chapter 18

Allison could barely breathe. And then- “Aunt Kate. _They found you._ Oh my God.”

Kate laughed delightedly when Allison piled on her, hugging her hard.

“I missed you so much,” Allison gushed, flopping on the seat next to her.

Kate’s eyes were bright as she turned, propping her elbow on the back of the couch and her chin on her fist. “I missed you too, princess. You’ve grown up so much. I’ve missed so much.” She reached out, pulling lightly on a curling strand of Allison’s hair.

Kate looked different. Older. Her health issues were still present, it seemed—there were dark bags under her eyes. She was very pale and sweating slightly, like the temperature of the room was too high.

Allison ducked her head shyly. “You didn’t miss much. I’m kinda boring.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” Kate said warmly.

Allison felt like her chest was swelling up. She was about to burst with happiness. Her favorite aunt, practically her own sister, was finally back with them, after so many years of absences! And yet, as happy as she was, she couldn’t help but register the missing pieces of this pictures.

“Where’s Mom? Dad?”

“They’re a little tied up right now.” Kate grinned, then nudged Allison with her hand. “Never mind that. Tell me more about yourself. Are you doing well in school?”

“Kate…” Allison pulled back. “Where’s Mom and Dad?”

Kate ran a hand through her hair, smiling distantly. Her eyes were dancing. “Are you unsettled because your dad hasn’t come swooping in her to lecture you about asserting yourself? About standing up to him for once in your life?” She sounded amused at her—at the both of them. At the classic father-child conflict they found themselves embroiled in.

But then her smile died. “Or you unsettled because you know exactly where your parents are?”

“Um.” Allison looked anywhere but at Kate. And then, hushed, she whispered, “They’re in the basement, aren’t they.”

“Yes. Yes, they are.” Kate tilted her head to the side. “Are they alone?”

Allison paused and then said, “No. No, they’re not.”

Kate smiled softly. “Have you ever wondered why it was so easy to eavesdrop on people, even when you tried to stop? Have you ever wondered why nights make you restless and the scent of raw meat is so unbelievably tempting?” She reached out and tapped Allison’s forehead before sweeping her fingertip down her nose. “Have you ever wondered why your nose bleeds every time your mother forces that godawful drink down your throat?”

“What do you mean?” Allison said in a broken whisper.

Kate tucked her bottom lip between her teeth, just looking at Allison. Then she bounced to her feet. “Come on. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Allison followed Kate into their basement.

There wasn’t a whole lot down there, but her parents kept their basement was meticulously organized. Everything had its place and Victoria wielded label makers like weapons. Chris was idly considering making it a second den and putting a TV down in the middle, but he wasn’t sure he really wanted to. They hadn’t owned a TV in three years and didn’t want to start a downward spiral or anything. Victoria had a vendetta against laziness and sloth.

They were a very active and athletic family.

The point is, the basement had a good deal of floor space in the middle. And, in that middle, there were two occupied chairs, facing her way.

“Mom, Dad!” Allison came to a halt on the last step down. “Scott?” There was a betrayed note in the question.

Her parents were both tied down to the chairs—legs to legs, arms to arms. They both looked angry, but Chris’ anger had desperation to it. Victoria’s had that classic layer of chill. Scott was standing a couple feet behind them, unbound and still, like a soldier waiting for orders. They both were gagged with a thick wedge of fabric. Chris’ jaw was visibly working behind the gag.

Kate laughed, almost sympathetically. “Scott’s not home right now,” she told Allison, squeezing her shoulder before stepping out into the floor space. 

And she was right. Scott’s eyes were gold and vacant. He was only partially turned—claws and fangs, but no ears. 

Kate walked around the chairs, running a hand over Scott’s back. “The harder they deny it, the easier it is for us to control them. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone fight this hard against it since little Derek Hale.”

Allison stared at her parents and then said, slowly. “You’re the alpha.”

Kate tossed her a bright smile. “Yes, sweetie, I’m the alpha.”

Allison blinked rapidly. “I don’t- I don’t understand.” Privately, she had thought for so long that the alpha was someone in Derek’s family. She never once thought _her_ family was the problem.

Argent, Derek spat when they first met. Goddamnit, Derek knew. He knew and he never said a damn word.

Kate did a slow circuit around the room. “When I was your age, I didn’t understand either. But, then again, when I was your age, I was trapped in a cage in a basement not unlike this one”—she gestured at the walls around them—“while my dearest father burnt brands into my arm for fun.”

“Kate, that’s enough.” Somehow, Chris managed to spit out his gag. He stared up at his sister defiantly.

“You’re right, Chris. That was unfair.” Kate kicked the spat out gag to the wall, but continued her walk. “It wasn’t for fun, I guess. It was for science. Gerard had somewhat of a scientist’s spirit, if none of their love of protocol or ethics.”

“What,” Allison said softly.

Kate paused, then shot an exaggerated look at her brother. “Good God, Chris. Did you tell her nothing?”

“There was no point telling her,” Chris said hoarsely. He looked up at Allison. “It wasn’t important.” In his eyes was an apology. 

Feeling dizzy, Allison grabbed the railing on the wall. “Tell me what? Tell me what?”

Chris looked down at the floor, avoiding Allison’s gaze.

“The Argent family has a curse, the Argent family is the worst,” Kate sung, approaching Allison. “The first born daughters, Allison. They always have a bit of extra spice.” She grinned, like she was sharing a secret. “Puberty usually brings it out in us. Growing up is so very traumatic.” She reached out, tugging on Allison’s hair playfully.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m not cursed.”

Kate’s hands stilled. “You’re not?”

“No! I don’t have it.” Allison shook her head vigorously. “I don’t.”

Kate cupped Allison’s cheeks and lifted her head up. “Allison, honey, if you didn’t have it, then why could I call you?”

Allison licked her lips. “Call me?” she asked hesitantly.

“You thought the sleepwalking was you? Oh no.” Kate flashed her a wide, bright smile. “That was me.” Kate let go of her then, walking back to her parents.

Allison dropped down off of the final step, feeling her hackles raise. “What are you doing?”

“Derek already told you. I’m making a family. A strong one.” Kate was no longer walking, but stalking, like a predator. Her eyes started glowing red. “But some of the potential candidates aren’t going to make the cut, I’m afraid. There’s been too much backstabbing and imprisonment. Isn’t that right, Vicky?”

Kate ripped the gag out of Victoria’s mouth. Victoria barely showed a reaction to something that had to have been painful, at least a little bit.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Victoria said coldly.

Kate crouched down in front of her. “While my dear brother was trying to track me across the west coast, you’re the one who cracked open the books about our kind.” Kate prodded her with a clawed finger once, and hard. Red blossomed under Victoria’s peach colored blouse. “You’re the one who read Gerard’s notes on me. You’re the one who figured out it was mountain ash, not silver that could keep us in.”

At the first sight of blood, Allison made a noise and started forward, eyes only for her mother. But then Kate shot her a narrow, red eyed glare, and Allison just… froze. 

She thought about boxes and boxes of the things Gerard had left in storage. Christ had been content to leave them there to rot, but not Victoria. Her mother would sit on the couch, bare feet curled under her. “Mom needs some alone time now.” And Allison would be gently, but firmly pushed out of the room, while her mother methodically read through every notebook and journal Gerard Argent left behind. 

“What of it?” Victoria replied.

“Just curious.” Kate flipped up her mother’s scarf with an idle finger. “How long did it take for Peter Hale to charm that information out of you?”

There was a moment of silence. Scott stood above them like a blank eyed sentry. In contrast, Chris’ face was twisted and worried and confused.

“Twenty minutes,” Victoria said finally.

Kate laughed softly. “Twenty minutes? Why so short?”

Victoria shot Kate a withering look. “I wanted him to figure out how to use the mountain ash so he could kill you.”

Chris recoiled slightly, closing his eyes. He hadn’t known. All those years of talking about how he was going to find his sister… he had meant it. Considering the fact that he knew about Kate’s condition, he’d meant to help her with the curse too.

After a beat, Kate let out a low, husky laugh. “Well, Peter didn’t kill me. He trapped me. He trapped me for five years.” She leaned in close to Victoria. “Do you know what your stomach feels like after you’ve been starved? It’s actually worse when you have super healing. It doesn’t take long for your own flesh to start look appetizing. You take a bite or two, which hurts. But everything heals and it starts all over again. It’s really awful.” Kate leaned back slightly, whispering, “Sorta like this.”

Then Kate slashed her claws across Victoria’s torso, from neck to hip.

Allison surged forward, screaming. Her world narrowed to her mother, choking. Kate stood with a tight little smile, letting Allison get close, letting Allison watch her mother die.

Victoria had a difficult time breathing. She was bleeding everywhere, too much, and there was no way to stop it. It was just too much. Allison grabbed her mother’s knees and stared up at her with a lost expression, not knowing what to say, how to make anything better. The veins in her arms started turning black.

Her mother stirred, focusing beyond the pain and the struggle of the last few minutes of her life. Then her attention shifted to Allison, sharpening. 

“You’re… better. Always better. Because you’re _mine_.” Victoria looked at her with a fiery expression. “Remember.”

After a beat, Allison nodded. Victoria rewarded her with a rare smile.

Then her heart slowed, her breath faded away, and her eyes went dim. When it was over, Allison bowed her head over her mother’s knees, sobbing.

Allison rested her head there, numb in her shock. She was only distantly aware of Chris was struggling and fighting in the chair next to her, biting out threats and promises with a venom that usually never came from his mouth.

Then a hand anchored in Allison’s shoulder and wrenched her back, away from her mother. It wrenched her so hard, she didn’t stop moving until she hit the wall. Allison struggled to get on her knees as Kate coolly watched on, eyes dismantling her and putting her back together again.

Kate kneeled in front of Allison. “Well, that was fun, but that was just the prologue, the teaser leading up to the main event.” She gestured behind her to her brother, to Scott. “The fact of the matter is that not everyone in this room is going to make it into our new family, Allison.” She cocked her head to the side. “I made the first choice. Now it’s your turn. Scott or Chris?”

Allison looked over Kate’s shoulder, realizing the enormity of what was just thrown at her feet. Life or death.

She grabbed her aunt’s arms, begging, “Please don’t do this, please don’t make me choose!” She was crying now, shrieking out her pleas.

Kate seemed to revel in the power of it. “Alrighty. Don’t let it be said that I never do anything for my favorite niece.” She booped Allison’s noise. Then, as casually as one ordered coffee, she said, “Kill Chris.” 

There was a ripping nose as claws cut through duck tape. Chris was suddenly on his feet, freed. Allison snapped her attention to Scott, who, while still furry and odd looking, had a look in his eyes that said he was both present and aware.

Kate pivoted slowly on her knee, looking at Scott with new eyes. “Oh, what’s this?”

Scott was breathing hard. There were tears in his gold eyes. “Allison, Mr. Argent, get out.” Then Scott was leaping at Kate, snarling and claws first.

-

Erica stopped to pick up Laura from the hospital. Then they all took off for Allison’s house, breaking every speed limit. Most of the deputies in town were scouring the Preserve, so they weren’t stopped.

Just as they screeched to a stop in front of the Argent family home, Allison and her father raced out the house. 

Lydia jumped out of the car first. Allison collapsed in her arms. She had tears running down her face. “It’s Aunt Kate, she’s the alpha. She killed my mother. _My mother is dead_!” She shrieked the last of that, hysterical.

Then there were thuds and roars from inside the house. They all turned to face it. The noises rose, volume raising, as the source of them moved out of the basement and into the first floor.

A solid mass came flying out of the window, sending glass everywhere. Scott hit the ground hard, woozy and bleeding from under his eye. 

Something—someone—followed him out at a sedate pace. It was a woman. She was a good two or three feet shorter than her alpha form, and a hell of a lot less hairier. Her eyes glowed that telling and awful red.

“Laura, Laura, Laura,” the alpha said with a laugh. Laura tensed. “You know, of all the Hales, you were really the worst. Always glaring at me, always asking questions. And I bet you’re the one who tattled to mommy and daddy about me and Derek’s little _extracurricular_ activities.”

Laura’s stance widened. “Go to _hell_ ,” she snarled.

Allison’s aunt snorted at her. “Bask in your self-righteousness all you want, but your big mouth only stepped up my timeline.” She smiled at Laura with a jaunty swing of her hips as she came closer. “Do you understand? _You’re the reason why your family died that night_.”

Boyd darted in suddenly behind her, slashing at her lower back. She twisted out of his reach, casually knocking him five feet away with one idle hand. Erica flinched as he hit the garage, making a huge dent.

“Now that was rude,” Kate said, making a tsking noise. She flipped her hair, looking at them. “Did you know the definition of insanity? It’s doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. Why do you even bother? You still don’t know how to kill me.”

“You have a wolfsbane bullet in your thigh that says otherwise,” said Cora, pointing her rifle at Kate. “Would you like one in her skull?”

Kate tilted her head. “Wolfsbane. Is that what that was?”

Cora pulled the trigger, but Kate was ducking, dodging. What Cora had was a single shot rifle and, just as she tried to reload it, Kate yanked up a stone water fountain and threw it at her. It hit her with a solid thunk, dropping her.

But, in that time, everyone moved around Kate, circling her. Isaac had two fire bombs. Allison’s dad had a crowbar from his car. Allison and Lydia were missing and Cora was shoving the fountain off herself with a pissed off snarl, but Boyd, Scott, Laura, and Erica had surrounded Kate, claws out.

Kate looked excited.

-

The world was a blur of numbness and cotton packed fog laced with adrenaline and dread. 

Allison was so afraid, so terrified. But there was a point where you’re so afraid, so terrified that you come out the other side, and you’re just _done_. Completely and utterly so. And then, from that point on, it’s all just rage. 

Pure, unaltered rage.

On the lawn, Kate was done playing around. She was done stalking. She dropped the bent crowbar to the floor, walking around Boyd’s prone body. He was moaning, not quite conscious anymore, but aware enough to feel pain. Erica was face first in the ground, trying to push herself up. Chris was curled around his stomach, wheezing and slightly purple. Isaac’s arm was broken. There were two pitiful flames—one on the ground, the other in a bush. Next to him, both Cora and Scott were down, weren’t moving.

Laura was in front of them protectively, kneeling more than crouching. Kate lifted her head up with her hand and slowly shook a clawed finger in front of her nose.

“Mess with the best, die like the rest.” Then, abruptly, Kate brought her fist down the side of Laura’s face, laughing at the sound of Laura’s gurgle, at the way Laura hit the floor. Kate delighted in hurting people.

Allison’s view of the mess was suddenly obstructed by Lydia’s shoulder. 

Lydia practically hauled Allison to her feet, getting her to move over to her car. She was trying so hard to be quick and quiet—trying so hard to avoid Kate’s gaze.

Stiles had warned her of this, Allison thought. Lydia was practical. Lydia was cutting her losses.

Lydia opened the back door of the car. “Come on, get in get in get in,” she hissed. 

Allison felt numb, frozen. She let Lydia manhandle her into the back seat. Allison stared at her palms, still covered in her mother’s blood. There was a buzzing noise in her ears and blackness was crowding up at the corners of her vision.

In the front seat, Lydia was shaking and trembling and trying to stick the key in the ignition. Then the driver side door abruptly opened. 

“Oh shit,” Lydia breathed.

Kate leaned over, bracing a hand against the roof. “You’re the girl with the fire,” she said with the friendly air of a neighbor introducing themselves. Kate made an exaggerated look of disappointment. “That’s unfortunate. I really hate fires.” 

Then she reached in, grabbing Lydia by the hair. Lydia fought. Lydia screamed.

It was like a repeating echo in Allison’s head, a loop within a loop. Lydia was screaming. Lydia was being dragged out of the car. Lydia was being thrown on the lawn. 

Lydia screaming, Lydia being dragged, Lydia being thrown.

Lydia screaming, Lydia being- Lydia. 

_Lydia._

Allison saw red. She swung out her hand and let herself out of the car.

Meanwhile, Lydia had caught herself on her elbows and started crawling back, trying to get away from Kate. But Kate just grabbed her by the front of her blouse, jerking her to her feet. “Oh, I’m sorry, kiddo. But you’ve been eliminated from this round of Next Top Pack. Please go back to your station and pack your things.”

With a bright smile, Kate freed one hand and reached back, preparing to slash open Lydia’s throat.

Allison caught her arm before it could finish its deadly arc. 

Kate whipped around to look at her, furious. She stared. Then she grinned. “Aw, Allison. They grow up so fast.”

Allison snarled with a mouth full of fangs, reveling in the power of it. The world was painted in red.

Kate dropped Lydia and faced Allison, laughing delightedly at Allison’s continued rolling growl. 

Then she attacked. It was textbook stuff. Swing, dodge, block. The alpha had always lacked finesse, clawing and biting and beating, but you didn’t need finesse when you were faster and stronger than whoever you were attacking. She needed finesse now, but she didn’t have it. The fact of the matter was that Kate spent most of her life in a small room under the mercy of someone else, being tortured or deprived, while Allison had been trained to fight since she was three.

Allison grabbed her shoulders and kneed her in the gut twice, three times, then Kate grabbed her leg and flung her back. With new dexterity, Allison managed to flip all the way around, landing on her feet. 

She looked up in time to see Kate’s wide, wild swing down. Kate’s arm was caught against Allison’s crossed arms. Then Allison was shifting, standing and twisting Kate’s arm at a painful angle in the same motion before aiming a sharp, powerful kick to her lower back. 

Allison let go, letting Kate stumble a bit. Kate turned and swung at her. Her face had moved from joyful to unsettled to desperate.

Good. Let her be afraid.

Allison smelled metal on her and remembered an injury. When Kate tried to attack her face, Allison ducked and slammed her fist into Kate’s thigh. Kate howled in pain, collapsing to the floor.

Allison prowled after regret going after her, going after her mom, going after the Hales and her friends.

Then a voice cut through the red haze in her head. “Allison!” 

Allison froze midstep, then turned to look at her father. His head was bleeding and he was holding his stomach carefully. But the thing that struck her the most was the way he stared at her, wide eyed and in horror. 

Feeling abruptly nauseous, Allison looked at the floor, then back up at him, forehead creasing. His expression shifted slowly from horror to acceptance to understanding. Then his eyes flicked over to his sister, who was still on the ground, curled over her wounded leg.

“Kate, stop. Just stop,” Chris said tiredly. “You’re not going to win this.”

Allison stared at him in disbelief. She just killed his _wife_.

But, as Allison searched out her father’s face, eyes moving over blood and an impressive bruise, she remembered that Kate was also his baby sister. After he found out what his father did, he’d spent a good chunk of his life trying to find her and trying to help her. 

He would never feel the same way about her again, not after Victoria, but he still didn’t want to watch his daughter kill his baby sister.

Allison’s shoulders slumped. All she’d been thinking was how best to hurt her, how best to make her as afraid as she made all of them. She’d wanted to break Kate open. Was this was the curse was all about? Did she really have such an ugly ticking time bomb in her this entire time?

Kate rose slowly to her feet, wobbly and trying not to put too much pressure on her leg. “You think she’s better than me, Chris?” she said quietly, sounding like a child.

Chris looked wounded. 

“She doesn’t know anything,” Kate said, tears in her voice. Then her face twisted, turning ugly, and she snarled, “She’s just a stupid child!” 

Kate threw her head back and, like that, Chris shifted back—and for good reasons. She was growing in size, muscle broadening, bones lengthening, fur sprouting. She let out a roar gaining that was regaining that awful duality Allison remembered from when she was nothing by prey. 

Before their eyes, Kate was shifted into a nightmare. 

Allison’s eyes narrowed. No. This wasn’t happening again.

Before Kate could shift completely into her monster form, Allison kicked her through the remaining front window. Glass went everywhere. 

Allison leapt in after her, claws in and prowling. Kate wasn’t immediately visible, but she left a trail of blood to find. 

When Allison found her again, Kate was crawling for the front door. There was a huge piece of glass embedded in her spine, impeding her healing. Knowing what needed to be done, Allison flipped her over with her foot, lifting Kate up by the collar of her tattered shirt. 

All of the wounds by the others had healed within seconds. The wounds by Allison, however, did not.

It seemed like you needed an alpha to kill another alpha. 

Kate was always good at reading her.

She fought hard to break Allison’s grip. Her hands scrabbled at Allison’s arms, claws digging in. Her eyes were wide and desperate. “Allison, Allison. They won’t understand,” she babbled. “They’ll lock you up, they’ll hate you, they’ll fear you. If you kill me, you’re going to be all alone in this world.”

“Alone?” Allison let out a huff. She thought of Scott. She thought of Scott and the last of the Hales. She thought of Erica and Boyd and Jackson too. “No, I won’t be. You made sure of that.”

Allison freed one hand and pulled it back. Seconds later, she ripped Kate’s throat out. Allison watched her die, her focus never wavering until her aunt’s heart beat for the last time. 

Victoria always appreciated parallels. 

-

Erica stepped carefully through the window, wincing as glass crunched under her foot. She brought the other foot in, glancing back over her shoulder at the others on the lawn. Allison’s dad was being tended to by Scott. Boyd and Cora were leaning over Isaac, trying to rouse him, while Laura stood over them, keeping Lydia upright and conscious.

Boyd looked up for a moment, meeting Erica’s eyes. He stared at her for a long time with a sort of helpless expression, but Erica took strength from it. She smiled tightly at him and did a little wave before walking deeper into the house.

The thing is, Allison was… fucking terrifying. Kate had been scary, sure, in that laughing, menacing insanity kind of way. But _Allison_. Sweet Allison. Nice Allison. The girl who blushed and ducked her head and gave them cheerful peptalks during their downtime. 

There was an arctic chill to her fury that somehow made her more terrifying than Kate. It was the Joker verses 

Erica had lost the rock-paper-scissors round with Boyd, Cora, and Laura about who was to go inside. They were all were-scaredy cats, Cora and Laura especially.

But Erica got it. She understood. It wasn’t just Allison in there. It wasn’t just an alpha. 

It was also the potential for violence, the potential of agency being ripped away from you, the potential of Allison being Kate 2.0, and Laura, for all of her bravado and badassery, apparently fled the town with her tail between her legs when Kate was at full power.

Erica found Allison in the foyer, looking down at Kate. Kate was very much dead. 

Hackles raising, Erica felt that otherness, that wolf under her skin peek through. Allison didn’t even seem to notice her. Erica had to smother that asshole part of her that begged for her to attack now, attack while Allison was distracted, attack before Allison could attack her.

It was hard talking through a mouthful of fangs. “You’re rocking an impressive brow right there.”

Allison looked up. “Don’t laugh,” she said. “Yours is worse.” Erica slapped her forehead, feeling ridges. What the fuck was _that_?

Allison leaned back, blinking. “Lydia.” She turned to Erica. “I have to see Lydia.” With that, she walked quickly out of the house, using the front door. Shrugging, Erica followed.

She came to an abrupt stop on the door step when Allison suddenly whirled around and asked her how to make the teeth go away, make the claws disappear. She insisted that she didn’t want to look at her best friend with the face of a monster.

“I have no idea,” Erica said apologetically, secretly glad. When Allison shot her a look, she shrugged. “Dude, I’ve been a werewolf for twenty hours so far. Get off my back.”

Making a face, Allison turned around, making a beeline for her friend.

Her worry was misplaced. Lydia just smiled at Allison woozily, swinging slightly from Laura’s shoulder. “Red looks good on you.” She paused, then frowned. “Okay, now I’m pretty sure that’s a concussion.”

Allison nodded seriously. “We’ll get you to the hospital. I-“ Something in her face broke, revealing the wounded person under it.

Allison looked back at her father. Chris was lingering back, reticent. Her face crumbled as she looked at him, as he paused. But then he was sweeping her into a huge hug, kissing her forehead and whispering things like _thank god you’re alright_ and _you did good back there_.

Erica grinned. Give Daddy Argent kudos points for not freaking out over the fact that his daughter just hulked out and hulk smashed his sister. Hulk shredded?

Wow. And she thought her family was fucked up.

Laura sidled up to them. “Hey, long time no see, Blue Eyes.” She had a wincing, apologetic look on her face. “I’m sort of a certified spin doctor when it comes to werewolf attacks. Come on. Let’s talk how we’re gonna word this.”

Chris looked wooden, shell shocked. Allison tipped her head back, looking up at him. Her wolfy face was gone. “Dad?”

“I’ll handle this. Get yourself to the hospital.” He turned to Laura. “What, I don’t even… my wife…”

Laura put a hand on his shoulder. “I know. I know. And, for my part, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

They piled Isaac and Lydia in the car. Boyd and the two Hale sisters decided to stay behind to help Chris. Scott also opted to stay. When Erica demanded to know why , Scott just shook his head.

“She’s not going to want to see me right now,” he said. He wouldn’t elaborate on why.

Erica slid into the passenger side, shoving the box into the floor space. She was just about to pull her seat belt on when she realized Allison was aiming for and missing the ignition with Lydia’s key. 

Aim, miss, scratch. Aim, miss, scratch.

Allison was shaking and she knew it. She looked up at Erica with wide eyes and a wobbling mouth.

“I can’t-“

Erica grabbed her hand. “I’ll drive.”

Allison stared back at her for a long time before releasing the key. “Thank you” And then, after a beat, sheepishly, she said, I don’t even know you.”

Erica smiled. “You know, I have a feeling we’re going to get to know each other a lot better.”

They got out and switched sides.


	19. Chapter 19

Allison didn’t like this place. She didn’t like the sterilized, uncomfortable chairs or the freaky, upsetting smells. She felt like she was at an AA meeting in an autoclave.

Two weeks had passed since the funeral. She spent one of them just breaking things. All sorts of things. Plates, cups. Her steering wheel. The stone column of the old bank. (That one actually hurt her, which was a relief. Knowing things still hurt.)

After that, she seemed to hit a plateau. A misleading plateau, because one minute, she could feel like she was fine, like she was moving on, then suddenly the loss would hit her so hard, she was breathless. And crying. And raging.

Her control was shit. Victoria may have figured out how to suppress the curse, but Kate had triggered something in her that, once on, could never go off again. 

She’d tried, of course. She made her mother’s juice precisely to the directions her father retrieved. Allison drank a gigantic glass of it, and then she spent two hours throwing it up. She was fully turned. Her body refused to take in anymore mountain ash.

And here she was now—in the hospital.

Allison took a seat, sucked in a deep breath, and then blurted out, “I’m a werewolf.”

Stiles blinked at her calmly. “Were you bitten?” He looked pale—paler than usual. Sickly, for all they said he was alright.

“No. It’s a curse. The alpha was my aunt.” Stiles just nodded. “And you’re not surprised.”

Stiles winced apologetically. “I’m sorry, Scott already spilled his guts. Can’t keep a secret, that boy.”

Allison smiled, ducking her head slightly. It was stupid. Really freaking stupid and all—she was aware. She should be focused on the werewolf thing, but nothing in the world could have stopped her from perking up at the mention of Scott.

“You think he’s still interested in me? I mean-” Allison looked around, then whispered, “Werewolves.”

“Allison, I’m pretty sure your family history would need to be a lot, uh, hairier for Scott to be deterred.” Stiles grinned at his joke. “He’s all ‘Allison’s so brave this’ and ‘Allison’s so smart that’-”

“And he’s okay with dating someone who has the potential of jerking him around like a puppet.”

“Well, if anyone was going to have that power, I think he’d prefer that person was you. Or his mom. I think you’re in a tie with his mom.” Stiles paused, rocking his head against his pillow. Then, quieter, he said, “Speaking of which, I’m sorry I missed the funeral.”

Stiles was in his third surgery at the time. There were… complications. The inner circle—the survivors, everyone in the know—had their phones on during the ceremony. They had to endure a lot of glaring from people who didn’t understand.

“No, it’s good you missed it. Funerals are not fun.” 

Stiles nodded solemnly. He would know.

They just looked at each other for a while. Then, finally, unable to take it, Allison blurted out, “Okay, look, ask me the question you want to ask me already.”

“Huh?”

“You keep looking at me with this look.”

“It’s my normal look.”

“No, it’s your _constipated_ with curiosity look.”

“Constipated? Rude. I don’t have any questions.” He played with the edge of his blanket. Then, in a rush, he said, “But the Hales, are they still, you know-”

“Around?” Allison guessed. “Peter and Cora left. Apparently Cora has school still and Peter’s-”

She remembered Peter throwing his hands up in the air. “Bored, bored, so damn _bored_. I swear to God I’ll start killing people _myself_ if I don’t get out of here.” No one was particularly sorry to see him go.

“He’s otherwise… occupied,” she said carefully. She shrugged. “Laura’s sticking around for a while. She’s helping us learn control.” 

If anyone was the alpha, it was Laura. Allison was just… the curse spreader. If that. 

Stiles fiddled with the blanket some more. “And Derek?”

“I don’t know. I think he’s around, but he’s never around when I’m around.” Allison bit her lip self-consciously before muttering, “I think I remind him too much of Kate.”

“It’s not your fault,” Stiles said gently.

Allison glared. “I know that.”

“And, one day, you’ll believe it too.” He smiled at her and raised his hand, curling his fingers into his palm. They fist bumped. Stiles mimed an explosion and Allison laughed. Everything was fine between them, it seemed. 

If only everything else was that easy.

-

Stiles was finally out of the hospital. This had taken him longer than even the doctor’s worst predictions, mainly because of the pain medication. He’d had a weird reaction to the first set of meds they gave him. 

They switched up his meds, which solved the problem, but that meant the painkiller was considerably weaker. That being said, they were still pretty good meds. He was aware of the pain, but it was duller and more manageable than without. It felt like he was breathing around a butter knife rather than a razor blade. 

The surgeries had gone pretty well, barring the complications of the third. He could breathe on his own and everything, but it seemed like every time he looked down, he could remember the feeling of being snagged, of being pinned down. Like a bug. According to his doctor, that was more of a mental thing than anything else.

All in all, physically? Stiles was doing okay. He had some scar tissue on his lungs, but, hey, he was alive, wasn’t he? Besides, all that meant was that he could be Shitty Breathing Buddies with Scott.

Oh wait. No, he couldn’t. Because werewolves. Ugh.

“Whoa, there, hold on to your horses,” his dad blurted out, setting Stiles’ prescriptions on the counter. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Stiles frowned at him. “To my room?”

“After four surgeries? On your first day home? I don’t think so, kiddo.”

Stiles was already half-way up the stairs, but he sighed heavily and turned around, leaning against the wall. “Dad, either I jerk off on the couch or I jerk off on the bed. Your choice.”

“On second thought, walking up and down the stairs is good exercise.” 

“Ha!” Stiles did a victory fist pump, then stopped because, ow, that twinged. 

His dad just rolled his eyes. “I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

“Kay.”

There were dried flowers on his pillow completely withered. Stiles poked at the bouquet with a pencil. “These have seen better days.”

“They’re a couple weeks old.”

“Holy-” Stiles flinched badly, flapping a hand over his heart. “Don’t do that.” 

Derek was slouched against the wall. He was broody and creepy as suitable as a creature of the night. 

“You got them for me?”

“Yeah.” Derek’s eyes flicked up from the floor to Stiles’ face. “Every time I approached your room, I thought of a hundred reasons why I shouldn’t.”

After a beat, Stiles nodded at that. “So you chickened out, basically."

Derek shot him a wide, sarcastic smile. “Basically.” He went back to staring at the floor. It was good to know Derek still brooded like a son of a bitch. 

It was best to nip those things in the bud, and nothing made it go away faster than making Derek speak his feelings to the world.

“Okay, lay it on me.”

“Every time I think of you, I think of that snot nosed little brat who once pretended to have a temper tantrum under a table so he could tie everyone’s shoe laces together.”

Stiles smiled at the reminder of his old coach’s ‘just let them cry it out’ policy. “Good times.”

“Yeah,” Derek said, distractedly. He straightened up slightly, clearing up his throat. “You grew up well. Really.” Derek seemed awkward and disgruntled about it.

Stiles stared at him for a while. And then, abruptly, he asked, “Dude, are you tongue-tied?” 

Derek shot him the ultimate bitch face and, there. There was the sixteen year old jerk Stiles loved and missed and grieved over. But there was also this guy. This hot guy. This _good_ guy. This person who fought to do the good thing, then fought to save them, save Scott, when the good thing just wasn’t possible.

And Stiles really liked them both.

“I’m legal, you know.” He was so smooth. He should change his first name to Velvet.

Derek glowered at him. “And I’m still six years older than you.” Nevertheless, he pulled off the wall and came closer, eyes hooded, warming.

Stiles hauled him in the remaining distance by his jacket, thumbing the buttons. “So? I have it on good authority that I grew up well. Really.” Stiles grinned. And then, because he was always the seize the day kind of guy, Stiles tipped forward to kiss Derek and…

Kissed Derek’s palm instead.

Stiles pulled back slightly. “Well. That’s new.” It stung. He tried to smile. “So. Was that a rejection or-“

“No! It’s not you. It’s just…” Derek looked uncomfortable. He dropped his hand. Then, after a beat, he gestured at the space between them. “I’m not sure this is real.”

Stiles wanted to hit him, to shout _of course this is real_ right in his face. He’d loved and missed and mourned Derek for _years_. Their relationship was the longest one Stiles had ever been a part of in his entire life. 

But then Stiles bit all that down and tried to consider it from Derek’s point of view. And, to his annoyance, Derek had a lot of justification on his end. Derek’s last girlfriend was the worst kind and had to be ripped open by another alpha before she’d stop messing up Derek’s life.

Yeah. Stiles could see where Derek might be hesitant to start anything new. 

Stiles took in a deep breath. “So, here’s my plan.”

Derek got defensive. “Look at you, always with a plan.”

Stiles poked him in the kidney. “Shut up,” he said. “Here’s my plan. Let’s… not do anything right now.” Derek’s eyebrows shot up, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad expression. Emboldened, Stiles went on. “Let’s hang out. Let’s go to the movies and argue about books and food and Marvel verses DC. Let’s get on each other’s nerves. Let’s just…” Stiles scrambled for words for a moment. “Let’s just get to know each other again.” He gestured between the two of them. “And then, if this is still here, if this is still _something_ , then we can go on from there.” He paused, then said quietly, “And if it’s just trauma bonding, well, at least we’ll walk out of the mess with a friend.”

“Or a mortal enemy.”

Stiles snorted at him. “You should only be so lucky to have an arch nemesis like me.” 

“You would think that,” Derek said, rolling his eyes. Stiles didn’t lose his gaze for long. “So what now.”

“I think we should start where we left off.”

Derek gave him a dubious look when Stiles dug out the comic books they both used to read. He was rightfully assuming that Derek was way behind. Like, way behind.

Derek hovered, standing, acting indifferent and aloof until Stiles punched his thigh and made him sit down. Derek sighed heavily, acting like he was just humoring Stiles. Minutes in, though, he was demanding explanations for different plotlines and characterizations. Derek didn’t like change. Derek didn’t like change at all.

Eventually, they moved away from comics to memories. They had long stretches of conversation where most sentences began with the words “Remember when-“

When that petered out, Stiles grabbed his laptop. Derek made him watch some hideously unfunny British sitcom. In retaliation, Stiles made Derek do two days of his math homework while Stiles fielded texts from his sisters. Laura was still suffering from surrogate mother syndrome. Cora was still mean. Nothing new there.

Stiles made a noise, remembering, and then pulled out a travel-size chess board from between a Harry Potter guide and some tongue-in-cheek manifesto to the bro-code. He got the pieces from a drawer before flopping back on the bed, presenting his bounty.

Derek’s eyes widened. Then, slowly, he smiled. “You learned.”

“Well, some bratty teenager thought this was the natural progression after hide and go seek and video games.”

“Shut up. I was awkward.”

“ _Was?_ ” Stiles cackled at that so hard, he fell off the bed.

They played until it was dark. His dad came in every once in a while, leaving with a faintly relieved expression when he walked in on a game or a heated debate or a game of keep away. (Derek was really uptight about his phone, alright? There was no way Stiles could not mess with that.)

Around ten, Derek got ready to go. He turned around, putting his back to the front door, facing Stiles. The tension was missing was missing from his face. Stiles had hardly recognized the blank face man who’d entered his and his classmates’ hiding place. Seeing him like this, so much like he used to be, Stiles got choked up.

“I missed you, jerkface,” Stiles said quietly.

Derek’s eyes warmed. “I missed you too, brat.”

They stood there awkwardly. What should they do? Shake hands? Hug? Kiss? Ooh, Stiles knew which one he wanted to do. But he restrained himself.

In the end, Derek just nodded to him and turned around, opening the front door. Stiles waved, realizing he was happy—really happy. He’d had a blast recapturing a part of his childhood that he’d thought was lost forever.

And, because he still wasn’t a child, Stiles shamelessly watched him walk away. 

Yup. Still wanted to climb that like a tree.

Well. That decided that. Tomorrow was Day 1 of Operation Win Derek’s Heart. Stiles was going to woo the shit out of him. 

Beaming, Stiles swung the front door shut.

-

It was almost summer—almost graduation. March came and left, and the documentary contest went with it. The winner was some kid who did a piece on the controversies surrounding the building of the first town hall. 

That… may not have been it, actually. She hadn’t paid much attention to the outcome. It had something to do with a building, at least. 

In any case, Allison tried to avoid any reminder of the contest at all and was relieved when April rolled around, and then May. May was especially distracting. Life went on.

While they moved out of the house Allison’s mother died in, Chris showed no signs of wanting to move again. Allison was glad. She was starting to feel like she was fitting in. She had friends and routines here.

For example, Allison was enjoying some alone time with Lydia at their local coffee shop. Normally, this consisted of discussions about school or projects or what stupid thing Jackson was going to next. Today, however, Lydia had stormed into the coffee shop in a bad mood. She slammed a ticket on the table before spinning off to put in her order. 

By the time she came back, she had a bullet point list on how the minor public ordinance violation she’d been slapped with was actually unconstitutional and violated her right to privacy. 

This was the most heated debate she ever had with Lydia, and they once got in a fork fight over the last of a cookie pizza. 

Mmm, chocolate chip.

It was just finally starting to wind down, but Lydia seemed stuck on a point.

“The point is that what I do in my own house during the day is my own business,” Lydia said pedantically. “And a car is like a moving house. Ergo, my property, my rules.”

Allison couldn’t disagree with her more. “When you crank your radio up to eleven, do you know how that sounds to people?” Then she was growling, “Do you know how that sounds to _me_?”

Lydia’s eyebrows shot upward. “Wow, tone it down, Red Eyes.”

Embarrassed, Allison ducked her head, hiding her eyes with a hand. Flashing eyes was something she was still working on.

“But I concede,” Lydia said gracefully, finishing off her latte. “That’s a valid point.” She slurped haughtily, like it wasn’t so much a valid point as it was a pity point.

“It’s like an ice pick,” Allison said doggedly, because she felt like this couldn’t be expressed enough. “ _To my brain_.”

“You wouldn’t feel an ice pick to your brain,” Lydia informed her brightly. “No sensory nerves there.”

“I’m a werewolf, Lydia. Don’t freaking push me.”

Lydia snickered, then looked over Allison’s shoulder. And then, with fake surprise, she announced, “Oh, look! Scott’s here.”

Panicked, Allison looked too, and, yes, he was. Scott was climbing off his bike in front of the store. He was shrugging the shoulders of his slightly too big jacket to make it fit his frame better. He’d gotten a haircut. It looked good on him.

Who was she kidding? Everything looked good on him.

“You gonna run?” Lydia asked quietly. 

Allison shot a look at her. “What kind of question is that?”

“It’s less of a question and more of a hypothesis, based on extensive observation,” Lydia said coolly. “It’s been a month since Hurricane Kate in and messed everything up. And you’ve barely talked to him once.”

“What do I even say?” Allison said bleakly. She was pretty sure that ship had set sail by now. She sighed.

“I don’t know. But, look, avoiding confrontation? That’s not going to work. Even if you don’t want to date him, you still need to keep an eye on him. Uncontrolled, hormonal werewolf, remember? _You should know._ ”

Allison blushed. “I never said I didn’t want to date him. Just that it’s… inappropriate.”

Lydia pressed her mouth in a thin line and turned pink. Then, abruptly, she kicked her under the table.

Allison recoiled, curling away from her. “Ouch. Oh my god, I can’t believe you did it.” Because nothing hurt worse than an expensive shoe slamming into your shin.

Lydia ignored her. “ _Stop making excuses._ It’s not cute and so what if you don’t want to hurt him? Because you are, okay? Hurting others is just a basic part of the human condition. And, curse or not, sweetie, you’re as human and flawed as every last one of us.”

Allison just gaped at her.

Lydia stood up then, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “It’s not practicality, it’s not kindness, it’s not mercy. It’s _fear_. If you’re going to wimp out on a relationship with a guy you genuinely, absolutely like because of fear, then own up to it. Otherwise, you’re just wasting my time.” Then, without any warning, she picked up her purse and walked away, muttering to herself. “God, even Derek and Stiles got their shit together, and they hate each other half the time.”

Ugh. Allison made a face. They made a big thing about taking it slow and getting to know each other again, only to get caught in third base three days later by none other than Allison and, even worse, Allison’s _dad_. Stiles was only mildly defensive about it, spinning off into a rant in the middle of the movie theater about historically and socially acceptable sex practices while Derek hid his red face in his hand. Stiles and Derek were so _embarrassing_.

Allison watched with narrow eyes as Lydia approached Scott, tapping his shoulder. He turned and looked down at her in surprise. Then his eyes widened again as Lydia pivoted and pointed out Allison’s position in the coffee shop.

Goddamnit. She wanted to hide under the table.

When Allison looked up again, Lydia was gone. And Scott? Scott was staring at her with a sad expression. So she smiled and made a show of kicking out the chair across from her. Invitation sent, invitation received. It was up to him where they went next.

After Scott put in his order, he sat across from her. He was frowning—not at her, but rather at the baristas. He had the look of someone forced to listen to death metal while nursing a migraine.

“It’s the coffee grinder,” Allison said quickly. “You get used to it.”

“Do you get used to the burnt coffee smell?”

“Uh…” Allison grinned briefly. “Not really, no.”

“Bummer.” Scott shoved his hands in his pockets. His shoulders hunched slightly.

“Yeah.” Allison ran her hand through her hair and said, awkwardly, “So. Bet Lydia told you to come here, huh.”

“Yeah,” Scott said neutrally.

There was an awkward pause. Her heart squeezed uncomfortably at his reticence. She’d gotten so used to the cuddly and talkative version of him during the attack… then again, she’d followed up with ignoring him for a couple of weeks. It was no wonder he was being shy and keeping to himself.

“You mad at me?” she asked cautiously.

Scott blinked at her. “No. _Never._ I just. I just figured you needed time to process.”

After a beat, Allison smiled warmly. “Thank you.” For understanding without needing to ask. For not assuming that it was something else. For not pushing.

Allison cleared her throat. “So I hear the Hales are teaching you. How’s that going for you?”

Scott started to say something, but then paused as the barista called out his name. He stood, then said, “We’re meeting today. How about I show you?” He looked cautiously hopeful.

Allison recoiled slightly. For a moment, she strongly considered passing on that. But then she remembered Lydia’s passion, her accusation that Allison was motivated only by fear.

Well, Allison was sick of fear already. So when he came back, she said sure and offered to drive them, not even flinching when they got in her car and Scott gave her directions to the old Hale house.

Her head held high, she drove along roads she’d walked both conscious and not. She drove past trees that looked identical to ones people died under, were pinned to, hid behind. And she thought she did well.

Right up to the point where she parked in front of the old house. Feeling her heart start to race in her chest, she pulled the keys out of the ignition and leaned lightly against her steering wheel, looking up through the windshield at the massive house.

She remembered the first appearance of the alpha. She remembered racing up steps to get away from it. She remembered losing Scott, and finding him again. She remembered fall, fall, falling and the bite of a fake rope against her palm. Then running, more running, more running _still_ …

Scott didn’t look at her. And then, suddenly, he said. “I had to leave the first time. I turned straight around and rode back home. It took me a week to be able to inside the house itself.” She looked at him, watching his face contort slightly. He seemed lost in a memory. “You can still smell stuff.” He blinked and looked at her. He smiled gently. “You don’t have to do this.”

Allison’s mouth flattened as guilt slammed into her. She should have been there with him. She would have been suffering, but at least they would have suffered together.

Scott looked away from her and back up at the house. He sat with her silently, giving her all the time she needed.

Allison needed at least ten minutes to process. And, when they were up, she slipped her fingers over the inside of his wrist and took his hand. She took in a deep, shaky breath.

“Yeah?” he asked.

Allison stared at him for a long moment. Then she leaned over the seat and kissed him. “Yeah.”

Scott looked at her like she made the world. It was a powerful feeling. 

They got out of the car.

Hand in hers, Scott led her to the one side of the house someone didn’t die around. Everyone else was already there. Derek was sitting on the ground, squinting at something on his phone. Behind him, Stiles was draped over a log like a lazy cat. 

In front of them, Erica and Boyd were playing some kind of tag game with Isaac. She’d never seen Isaac smile so brightly before. His neon green cast was still in attendance. Laura was upright and watching them, arms crossed over her chest.

“Careful, careful,” she said suddenly when Boyd lifted Isaac straight off his feet. “He’s still human.”

Boyd made a big show of gently lowering Isaac to the ground. Snorting, Isaac hooked a foot behind his heel and pulled, dropping the bigger boy to the ground. Erica laughed so hard, she choked. Then she piled on top of them, rubbing dirt in Isaac’s hair.

Laura pinched the bridge of her nose, clearly at her wit’s end. Before she could say anything, Stiles lit up at the sight of them and sat up, waving furiously. He got off the log so quick, he ended up tripping over Derek, eating grass.

“Aw, fuck, ow.”

Derek swatted the back of his thigh lazily. “Nice one, idiot.”

Just then, a Porsche pulled up behind Scott and Allison, the driver completely ignoring the fact that he was essentially parking in what used to be a garden.

Jackson got out, slamming the door behind him. “What are you waiting for? A Christmas miracle?” He examined his watch—top of the line, of course. “I assure you, I have better things to do with my valuable time.”

“He doesn’t,” Lydia confided breezily, slipping out of the passenger side. She bumped Allison’s hip with her own as she passed. The sunny smile she shot Allison told her that all was forgiven. “So, what are we learning today?”

“Anchors,” Laura said. “Today, we are learning about anchors.”

Jackson looked bored. “It’s a thing on a boat used to stop it from moving. Boom. Can I go now?”

Derek and Laura shared a long suffering look with each other.

Stiles flopped over on the ground, groaning. “Oh my God, useless…”

Jackson jabbed a finger in Stiles’ general direction. “Hey, pipe down, peanut gallery!”

Boyd had Isaac in a head lock. Erica was laughing loudly, head thrown back. Everyone was bickering. And Allison, she…

She was happy.

Yes. This could work.


	20. Chapter 20

Epilogue

“Peter?”

Peter barely kept from flinching. He’d gotten absorbed in his reading. That was a mistake.

Cora looked over his shoulder, her face shining from the light of Peter’s laptop. “Find anything new?”

Peter made a face. Most of the stuff online about werewolves was just crap. Twilight stuff. Movies about hairy, improbable basketball players. You know, that sort of thing.

Peter closed his laptop. “Nothing new, besides my thoughts.”

Cora smiled, sitting on the edge of his desk. “A penny for them.”

Peter steepled his fingers together, arranging his theories. Cora was always an excellent sounding board. “Every bitten werewolf is just a derivation of patient zero.”

“An Argent.”

“In our case, yes,” Peter said impatiently. “The important thing is that we’re a derivation. A weak derivation.”

Cora frowned at him. “So?”

“So our lives went to shit after Kate Argent saw something good enough in us to break and the only silver lining is what we get out of the bite.” He started ticking things off his fingers. “Super senses, super strength, super regeneration-“

“And I reiterate: so?” Cora crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ve give it up—all of it—if it bring our family back. Wouldn’t you?”

Peter smiled instead of answering. “Aren’t you late for school?”

She looked at the clock and scowled. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she said, darting away. There was a jangle of school supplies when she picked up her backpack. 

“Language, young lady.”

“Piss off, Peter.” With that, she charged out the door, but not before blowing him a kiss. The door swung shut behind her. He listened to her feet pound down the stairs of the apartment complex.

After a moment, Peter got up. He watched her leave from the window. As usual, she turned and looked up, desperate to see if someone cared about her leaving. Smiling, he waved at her gently. Cora beamed up at him before running down the sidewalk to the bus.

It was important to cement his ties with her. He was her only friend, and he liked it that way. Peter’s smile died as he pulled away from the window.

Cora had a deep, long held grudge against her siblings for her abandonment, a grudge lovingly built into existence by Peter. But it was a grudge made on shifting sands. Peter could already feel himself losing her. When they had left, he’d caught her staring after them with longing. Phone numbers had to have been exchanged, because he’d eavesdropped on more than one late call in the night. And who knew what Cora was up to on her laptop?

Peter wasn’t too worried. Cora was helpfully malleable. To woo her back, all he had to do was remind her who was there when she woke up from her coma, remind her who haggled and negotiated and wore down the school until they could get Cora back up to speed with her classmates—so she was only one year behind her peers instead of four.

Peter turned around and walked back to his office. He stroked loving fingers over Foucault and Machiavelli and Descartes. He paused over a Christian bible, tapping its spine. They weren’t religious in the slightest and, if Cora had been just a bit brighter, she might have questioned why her avowed atheist uncle had such a thing in close reach. 

Peter pulled the book out and flipped to Revelation and, yes, there it was. 

Gerard’s personal notes. Loose leaves of paper—very old school, that Gerard.

Peter pulled them out and unfolded them over his table, eyes caressing over the half-memorized lines.

In her attempt to reign in Kate, Victoria had given Peter Gerard’s books—or what was left of them, rather. One of these books was a nauseatingly detailed science journal in which the old man had identified items that did or did not react to werewolves. Things that did or did not slow healing. 

Things that did or did not make a werewolf scream.

But, oh the error Victoria made. In the back cover of the journal was a hollowed space just big enough to hide a few leaflets of notes. These writings were not written in the detached air of someone just trying to make sense of the senseless, no. In these notes, Gerard’s madness—and vision—shone like beacons. 

Gerard had done more than test his daughter, it seemed. He’d, in fact, taken her blood and infected others. How else could he see the effect of contracting lycanthropy?

Gerard hadn’t kept her away to protect people after all. No, he coveted her power. He was jealous of it. He was almost insane with his desire for it—almost, that is. He wasn’t about to willy nilly infect himself without knowing all the details.

And so, Kate had suffered. Strangers had suffered. Gerard cleaned up his messes afterwards and kept his golden goose under lock and key.

It was a fascinating read. Gerard had learned so much in so little time.

For example, he had an interesting theory of hierarchies of power. He called them alpha, beta, and omega. The pack leader, the pack member, the packless. It was all hideously uncivilized, but it had clearly struck a chord with Kate, who had repeated it to Derek. Derek had, in fact, infected everyone else with the language, but Peter expected as much from him. He was always so unoriginal.

Gerard found out that no two werewolves were made the same. Some took to it without a hitch, like those two children, Reyes and Boyd. Some resisted it and had difficulties assimilating, like that Scott boy and Derek himself. But the alpha…

The alpha was always stronger. Better. Faster. Plus he or she had that nifty mind-control thing.

That mind control thing was the only thing that kept Kate alive for so long. Peter had gone down to kill her several times, only to come out of a fog with Kate half-unchained and going for his throat.

Yes, and that was the only reason. Peter had known about the effects of wolfsbane a good month before Victoria caved and handed over Gerard’s notes. Kate had only lived so long after he caught her because he wanted to be whatever she was. He wanted to have whatever she had. But he couldn’t figure out how to get it, so he decided to kill her anyway.

Then, of course, there was the mind control powers, which turned that effort into a huge frustrating stalemate.  
Then that alpha potentiate started sniffing around in her sleep, reeking of wounds and mountain ash. It absolutely drove Peter up a wall, learning Kate, as an alpha, could extend her influence so far. Yet another power that was denied to him.

Oh, he’d alerted Derek and Laura like a good uncle, saying something about people skulking around Kate’s prison. And they’d come running. And then Kate got let out, which was just… irritating. And then she got herself killed and now Peter was back at square one.

Back at square one, yes. And still a weak derivative.

What pissed him off the most was the idea that he’d had power in his hands, but he’d just let it… slip away. In his own notes, Gerard told of a time where he induced a semi-alpha state in one of his test subjects and then arranged for one of the other betas to kill him.

When you were already a beta, the alpha powers were _inheritable._ You kept what you killed. 

Peter’s teeth grinded together. If he had killed her in that basement, he’d already be an alpha. He’d already have all the powers he coveted. He’d be the most powerful one!

Irritated, Peter threw the book across the room, digging his claws into the armrests of his chair. He snarled loudly, furious at the missed opportunity.

Then he pulled the rage back, inch by inch. Forcing himself to relax. Forcing himself to slouch in the seat.

He smiled.

Well, it wasn’t like there was a sudden shortage of alphas. In fact, he knew of one right off the top of his head.

She lived in Beacon Hills.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Based on True Events](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089141) by [paleogymnast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paleogymnast/pseuds/paleogymnast)




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